


You Are My Support

by kerning



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerning/pseuds/kerning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shapes he pulled were captivating; whatever the music he moved to, it kept time with the increasingly rapid beat of Gerome’s heart.</p><p>In which Inigo and Gerome have more than three conversations. I based this on my first run through of the game and included other lovely pairings like Frederick/Sumia and Owain/Cynthia, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although I’ve taken some liberties with canon, there are spoilers for the end of game, the 3rd drama CD, Harvest Scramble and Future Past DLC. Thanks for reading, any constructive criticism or comments are appreciated!

Dirt clung to Inigo’s skin and the fallen Risen left a faint haze of violet dust in the air. It made him not want to breathe. Honestly, he should be used to it by now, though this wasn’t the usual skirmish of Risen cropped up on the countryside and it brought him startlingly close to the hordes that plagued his family in the past. He bent at the waist, sword cast on the ground trying to pull in as much clean air as he could, blinking away the sweat from his eyes.  The area was clear at the moment, last of the monsters driven away from a tiny seaside village. Severa and Laurent were holding their position near its front gates, as Robin had advised. Even from his distant perspective, it looked as if they were arguing. Their tactician had a strange way of deciding teams, it seemed.

Minerva’s shadow hovered over him a moment before she and her rider landed in front of him, drifting up more foul air. Gerome nodded imperceptibly. Many battles ago, he had no idea what that meant but now, he was reequipping his steel sword to sit astride the wyvern.

Once they were in the air, he looked to where the bulk of their army marched towards a fortress, scanning the mass for wavy pink hair. His mother was midway in the lineup, accompanied by the familiar glint of oversized armor his father always wore, his slow stride evident. But however strange it was to see her in Swordmasters garb, she looked more confident than she had in his memories save for when she was performing. He was honored to see it. Her image grew smaller with distance and Inigo nudged Gerome by the shoulder.

“What are you— we’re not meeting up with the others?” The words were snatched from Inigo’s mouth by the increasing breeze.

They were above an outcropping of rocks that were quickly gaining traction into a rocky hill. To jump now would result in broken bones. Unsure of what was happening Inigo defaulted to the only thing that felt comfortable— running his mouth.

“Defying orders to be alone with me…our nightly rendezvous’ aren’t enough for you now?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Inigo chalked up a silent victory at the pink tinge creeping up his neck. Too easy.

The wind picked up and Inigo suppressed a full body shiver, silently cursing his barely buttoned shirt.

“I’m cold.” He put the most petulant inflection on the words as possible before wrapping his arms around Gerome’s waist, effectively blocking out the chill and receiving an indignant huff. Gerome reined in Minerva so they hovered at the crest of the hill.

Shadowed by foliage, Inigo caught glimpses of the undead advancing toward their comrades. From this distance, it was impossible to determine their numbers. By the time they could warn the main force they’d be engaged in combat with the fortress’ soldiers and beset from both sides.

“Let’s stop them before they get to the others.” Inigo nodded his assent, as if Gerome could have seen it while guiding his mount to the thinning line of trees. Once properly on the ground, he shifted his weight from foot to foot; working the feeling back into his legs from getting off of Minerva.

Inigo swung his sword in an aerial arc, catching it neatly by the hilt. He rushed the nearest Risen, neatly separated its head from shoulders in one fluid motion. Onto the next. Upward thrust and there was something unsatisfying about being the only one able to bleed out here. A plume of violet dust seeped from the wound. Its garbled cry dissolved into silence.

Beside him, the screech and howl of undead succumbing to either Minerva’s maw or a well-timed axe. If Minerva were any louder, she could perhaps deafen him permanently. That’d really put a damper on his dance practices.

 “Pay attention!” All the air left Inigo’s lungs as the bulk of Minerva shoved him out of the way. He’d lament his bruised side later, deciding it better to heed Gerome’s advice. In a moment’s time it proved unneeded.

 A guttural howl left the Risen swordsman as its attack met the dull clang of a parrying axe and thick wyvern hide.  Properly enraged, the Risen changed its stance to one at once alarming, the blade wild and unpredictable. Those, too, were buffeted in turn. Seeing an opening, the pair surged forward, a dive of steel and fury that dispatched the foe instantly.

 “Thanks.”

Gerome came out of the spin almost elegantly, drifting over to his side again.

“…Show-off.”

Inigo focused on the undead around him, doing his best to cut through them as quickly as possible. It seemed in vain— as one fell, two more seemed to spring from the ground itself.

“You have terrible ideas!” He dodged a set of accursed claws just in time.

“I’m realizing this now yeah.” 

There were so many Risen it seemed they were as one mass bearing down upon them. The beginnings of panic were settling into Inigo’s spine when Minerva’s shrieks increased them tenfold— a sniper nocked its arrow and found its home in the wyvern’s underbelly. Gerome was slumped over like he mutually felt her pain when everything merrily went to hell.

Gerome, thoroughly focused on his attempts to calm Minerva, let his guard down. In those mere seconds, an arrow sank into his shoulder, eliciting cries from them both. One in surprise, the other in pain. His axe fell to the ground.

Inigo hastened closer hoping to administer what aid he could with the paltry sweet tinctures stored in his bag. His heart sank at the sight—the barb neatly pierced the armor completely.

Gerome’s face was contorted in agony and through gritted teeth he ground out, “Get on, I can’t get as far without you.” Inigo winced at the wet darkness spreading across Gerome’s back as they made their retreat.

Once they were out of range of those damned Risen and Minerva grew far too weary to bear their weight anymore, they clumsily alighted on the ground. Not much can be said for natural grace in the face of worry. Gerome pulled a knife, hidden somewhere on his person and all but shoved it in his direction, “Cut it out.”

“Come again?” Inigo’s brows rose in incredulity, “You can’t be serious…” He hesitated in unfastening the pierced pauldron. “You’ll need this most definitely.”

Inigo uncorked the tincture, passing the lurid pink liquid to Gerome’s shaking left hand. He scrunched up his nose at the taste. Silently, he handed him another, mentally trying to prepare for something he had little experience in.

“Gods.” Sweets didn’t agree with Gerome but Inigo doubted the full brunt of pain he was about to experience would either.

“Thank them once I’ve fixed you up.” Inigo flashed him the briefest of smiles, not daring sustain one so false.

Inigo removed the pauldron and swore under his breath. The arrow had passed through the other side, clearing air but not enough that he could cut away the point. Quick as his nerves would allow, he cut away the fletching and pulled the arrow free to Gerome’s pained gasps. There was blood, too much of it and Inigo tried to staunch its flow with the torn bottom of his tunic, so relieved to see Gerome passed out; even more so to hear the footfalls of a priest behind him.   

 

◊◊◊ 

 

When Gerome first regained consciousness, it was to the acrid smell of medicine, and his stomach roiled in displeasure. Soft laughter and armored footsteps filtered their way to his hazy mind; an ever-present cloying sweet scent accompanying it. The threadbare blanket irritated his skin and he moved to scratch a rather persistent itch. When his arm didn’t respond his eyes proved less resistant to all command.

Maribelle sat on a stool beside him, a needle darning his shoulder closed like the finest of embroidery projects. “My Brady gave you too much numbing salve. It’s just as well. Inigo has all the finesse of a common brigand, he’s been barred from the healer’s tent indefinitely…” She waited for a response and when none came continued, “You’ve been taking up space here for three hours, all this dreadful cleaning we had to do.”

“…Minerva?” The single word was a struggle.

“With all the doting she’s receiving from Cherche and Inigo she’s healing just fine. I don’t know how your mother manages taking care of two wyverns but then again she is Virion’s retainer.” She spared him a brief glance before continuing to work. His mother had taken to embroidery, before the world had thrown itself completely to chaos. No matter what time, there was always chaos.

He phased in and out of wakefulness. Sometimes Laurent and Lucina came to him, twin worries etched upon their faces. Cynthia and Owain were loud in their signature way, the staff hushing and later pushing them away. Unease crept and lurked. There were flowers on the small table next to him.

 

Inigo roused him from sleep, motioning to be quiet—absurd coming from him of all people –while pulling him by the right arm out of the healer’s tent. He shivered at the cold night air and Minerva glided near them like a chaperone. Her soft wingbeats did nothing to stave the chill. It was only until Inigo handed him a shirt that he noticed they’d left camp entirely.

“I want to show you something.” By the time he pulled the blissfully warm fabric over his head, Inigo was midway through his dance. Often his routines were reminiscent of his mother’s, chasing after her memory and all the lines of his body at once beautiful. This was nothing like that. He moved with a strength and urgency he’d never seen before. The shapes he pulled were captivating; whatever the music he moved to, it kept time with the increasingly rapid beat of Gerome’s heart.  Minerva trilled her approval, her presence ever a comfort. He drifted towards him and the sweat upon his brow marked the passage of time. Once the routine was over, Inigo rose from the ground, taller than usual, calm suffusing his voice.

“What did you think?”

Stepping closer, Inigo touched his chest lightly, fingers splayed, each digit vivid in their pressure as if against bare skin. Gerome stumbled, not feeling the earth as it met his back. Treetops swayed in the breeze until he was looking up at him. Moonlight caught on his dark hair and it seemed to capture stars in the strands.

Bothered at not receiving a response, Inigo touched his face, enough to burn upon the skin in their warmth. His mask bore so very heavy, a weight he’d been ignorant of until this moment.  Inigo would recoil at his bare face, for surely it would be branded and scarred beyond recognition with his own shame. Yet brightness poured into his vision, Inigo leaning ever closer to him. He repeated the question. Gerome found himself thoroughly pinned, focus on those damnable stars.

 

He awoke with a start, struggling to breathe or move. His body felt taut like a bowstring and his arm radiated throbbing pain in unpredictable waves.

“Be at peace.”

Gerome figured there’s no afterlife void of pain.

“Your arm has become infected.”  He wasn’t above scowling at a man of the cloth, though pain stole the edge of it.

Once Libra had taken care of him and the sour taste of vulneraries and thin broth settled into the uneasy pit of his stomach, he was left alone. Solitude suited him just fine.

He found it quite hard to ignore Inigo when he couldn’t simply walk away, but he made a valiant attempt nonetheless. His eyes squeezed shut no matter what time of day he might show up. It was childish. When the flowers lain on the table were succumbing to death and he’d counted every imperfection in the tent’s ceiling, he gave in. Forced bedrest upon threats and gentle suggestion could bring anyone to surrender.

As fate would have it, the next time Inigo strode into the tent, he’d been sitting up, and Inigo commented on such with surprise. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

“It was one arrow.”

“It was a lot of blood.” He fiddled with his earring, eyes downcast. “I should go.”

Before something in him could utter a delayed objection, he was gone; but apparently _, go_ meant come back all too soon with hot food. Gerome acknowledged his thanks, remarking on Maribelle’s probable imminent return.

“I’ll take my chances.”

He concentrated on eating, and what with the amount of joyless, tasteless sustenance he’d consumed in the past weeks, it was only expected.

 

◊◊◊ 

 

Inigo was at once grateful for his father’s genes leaving him unnoticed, for as he was on his way to take the empty stoneware back to the mess tent he could see Maribelle making her way towards the healer’s tent. He’d been chewed out enough for one day.

Robin, once she caught wind of what happened threatened to have words with them both. Weeks later she’d come around to make good on that. Only it was him alone sitting on a stiff backed chair listening to how— if not for a straggling priest— perhaps they’d both be dead what with how many Risen were after them.

“I craft my tactics so that you, your friends, that all may live. Your life and the skills you bring to this army are indispensable. Please don’t heed such errant folly again.” She placed her hand on his arm. Inigo could count the number of eyes on her brand. “If you’re going to engage in overblown missions, you may as well grow with it.” Punctuated with a weary sigh, she handed him a Seal. “May Naga keep you.”

In the privacy of his empty tent, he’d opened it finding a Hero’s garb inside. Inigo stifled a laugh at the absurdity—it wouldn’t do for anyone to think he’d cracked. Heroes don’t stand by while friends bled to death.

There was nothing heroic about him. He’d killed people for the highest bidder. He was concentrating on steadying his hands as he washed the stoneware when Gerome’s blood bloomed beneath his fingernails. Not this again. The lack of sleep was getting to him. Clean and scrubbed dry, he left the tent and walked down the well-worn track of dying grass to Owain’s tent.  A night out at the nearest tavern would do him some good.

Convincing Owain required the promise of free drink on Inigo’s tab. What he’d forgotten was wherever Owain went, so did Cynthia and Brady. While all it had taken was a couple of full tankards  before Owain’s usual stories became a lot more colorful to the enjoyment of every patron, man and woman alike; it also left Inigo sulking in the metaphorical corner.  Rapt at tales of dashing heroics— most heavily embellished— their fans eagerly supplied more ale. Leaving Inigo free from emptying his own pockets, what brief relief was culled by the fact that they didn’t even see him. Inigo decided after the sixth dismissal of his advances that the night was a bust.

They could fend for themselves for all they’d miss him. 

Making his way back to camp as a single lantern in the dark, the pleasant buzz of alcohol made it easy so his feet found themselves in front of the healer’s tent— to find Gerome completely absent from his cot.  Giving up on any notable end to his evening at all Inigo trudged into his tent, leaving the extinguished lantern outside.

Inigo squinted at the candlelight, not expecting it to be occupied. Gerome was perched on the edge of his own bed, a knitting project on his lap.

“You’re back.” He toed off his boots and sat heavily on his bed. “They let you out?”

Gerome shrugged. “It’s not jail. How was your evening?”

Inigo refrained from remarking upon how Gerome only moved his good shoulder. “Oh you know the usual, getting completely passed over.”

“I suppose your technique could use some finesse.”

Inigo pretended not to hear him and fell back heavily against his bed, complaining at the ceiling. “Without you around, no woman would look my way. But it wasn’t the same— I mean it was, I didn’t get lucky or anything.” He threw an arm over his flushed face, the world gone dark save for the faint orange-red glow behind his eyelids. “Not even a smile...”

“Yes well, Minerva likes you, you aren’t repellant to every lady. Please don’t throw an unholy tantrum about it.” He cleared his throat and the soft clicking of knitting needles halted. “Thank you, by the way, for how you helped Cherche take care of Minerva.”

“Eh? You found— you’re welcome.” Minerva may tolerate him but it didn’t prepare him for the sheer amount of work involved.  “Speaking of, you should meet me at the barracks tomorrow.” Taking the resuming rhythm of knitting as acquiescence, he rolled over and attempted to sleep.

 

Inigo awoke disoriented, sluggishly moving through his morning routine, though if the bustle around him were an indicator it was a stretch to call it such. If pressed, he could attribute the late start to the intermittent rain that lulled him to prolonged rest. Inigo noted Gerome’s empty bedroll and set out to look for him, dodging muddied, puddle strewn paths outside.  He was pleased when his notions were confirmed at the training yard.

Training after an injury had to be difficult, yet Gerome was several feet in the air doing aerial maneuvers. Inigo was so engrossed in watching the drills that he nearly missed Laurent’s salutations. After exchanging polite pleasantries Laurent’s keen eyes were once again following Gerome’s every move of attack, defense and parry. Inigo could see Minerva had increased verve, new equipment shining even in the dull grey sky.

Alighting upon the ground Gerome glanced at them both before waiting for Laurent’s critique.

“Your performance overall is relatively good however you favor—“

Inigo tuned Laurent out. Robin really had promoted them both for their reckless behavior. Nevertheless, the Wyvern Lord attire suited him, in black of course. Not a fan of the perfunctory armor, its open weaving beckoning enemy arrows. But it did make his shoulders broader and overall more intimidating.

“— should alleviate that problem,” Laurent paused, looking between them. “But I’m sure you can manage.”

Excusing himself to his daily rounds about camp, Laurent took his leave. Saying how Minerva looked magnificent in her new armor as well, Inigo received a small smile from her rider and she blew sulfuric air in his face at the praise. After cooling down and putting up Minerva’s tack, the sky was finely misting rain by the time they’d made it to the barracks.

Inigo shifted from foot to foot in nervous anticipation. “I hope you like it.”

Oh. Someone had placed an assorted rabble of weapons in front of his surprise. “Um…  I know she’s got the new armor but I thought that… I mean I couldn’t…,” he carefully pulled a convex curve of metal away from the wall, turning to Gerome’s curious face. “It’s a guard for Minerva, it’s not full coverage. We didn’t have enough metal to spare for that but it’s better than nothing.”

“I love this.” Gerome mumbled.

“What?”

“I said Minerva will love this. Thank you.”  He took the wyvern sized breastplate from him and Inigo’s knot of nerves untied in the face of his gratitude.

Muffled by the barracks walls, the call to arms blared outside. The army roused as one, and in the cacophony Gerome and Inigo parted ways. Inigo dashed to their tent, equipping the rest of his protective attire and swiping a few healing salves in record time. Moments later the sky opened up, and he stood awaiting orders, hair lank and heavy from the downpour.

Without Gerome by his side, Robin decided to pair him up with Henry, who always had a murderous glint in his eye that looked the same as mirth. The foreign thrum of magic and laughter as another body’s blood boiled made Inigo tense. It was a relatively quick fight, nothing more than brigands looking to ransack the neighboring town; but the residents were grateful and provided the Shepherds with both supplies at discount and a series of carriages to take them into town.

Annoyed, Inigo desperately wanted a bath before going anywhere. There may have been mud in his ears for how many times his traction failed him in the past hours. At least it muffled the dimly resounding cackle of bloodlust. Though the sun’s set marked an end to the rain and lifted his spirits, Inigo stifled a shudder.

And nearly crashed into Gerome as he was exiting their tent. “Sorry,” Inigo glided past him, tossing off drying dirt caked gloves to the floor. Golden hour light filtered through the tent’s opening as Gerome lingered.

“You’re making a mess.”

“We live on a patch of dirt, its fine.” Inigo rummaged through his kit, looking for a fresh change of clothes. Gerome was still standing there, a silhouette of darkness and gleaming red hair. Pausing, Inigo took in the fine blouse and trousers. “Going somewhere?”

“...No.”

“Then why’re you dressed so nice?”

“I always dress like this.”

No you don’t, but Inigo kept that bit mum. He couldn’t place Gerome in anything other than his uniform in truth. “It’s a shame to waste a good outfit on these canvas walls… There are carriages coming into camp you know.” A noncommittal hum in response. “I can’t believe you’ve been isolated for all this time and don’t want to leave.” At last he found his favorite outfit, tunic the perfect shade of blue.

“You fought off, what, brigands yet you want to go out?”

“A man has to have some positive experiences during his day.”

“Another tavern crawl… why do I expect better from you?”

The other night’s rejection still stung fresh. “There’s more to do than that. I’ve varied interests you don’t know about.”

“Oh, then I’d be interested to see those.” Success met, Inigo refrained from glibly slinging an arm round Gerome’s shoulders for that would ruin both his silks and willingness. While scouring away dirt, Inigo was racking his brain for somewhere to go. Twilight approached with Inigo in finer clothes and nary a bit closer to a destination.

As he approached the camp entrance, Inigo found Gerome waiting along with Sumia, who was wearing a sleeveless dress, color a vibrant shade of lavender. Gerome’s eyes drifted over to him before focusing on Sumia once again.

“—back, but you two are going into town; ride with us—oh, thank you.” She turned so Frederick could place a short cloak on her bare shoulders. Inigo wasn’t about to turn down a lady’s invitation to anything, but intruding upon a married couples date night wasn’t high on his list. 

“Milady—,” Thank the Gods their captain felt much the same. “I hardly believe there’s space.”

“There’ll be plenty of room,” Sumia insisted, her smile as kind as it was effervescent.

A large closed top carriage arrived, lanterns already lit. The doorman lowered the step for Sumia to board and Frederick—after giving the man a cold look—used a handkerchief to wipe down the carriages rain-dampened step. “You treat me like a princess.”

“You are a queen in my eyes, dearest.” He held her hand as she stepped up into the carriage, then followed suit.

Sumia had been right—the ride was comfortable— but it didn’t ease the crowded air around them. She fell into a conversation in hushed tones with her husband.

Between the four of us, we may have slain a Risen army thrice fold. It seemed absurd, the couple before Inigo a picture of marital bliss. Not four hours earlier, Sumia was seeking mighty vengeance through the air, mowing down brigands. Frederick himself had ushered the fray demanding his soldiers hold the line and brooking no quarter. Valor peerless, this was the couple who consistently brought in the highest kills. Nothing could touch them, save the fingers that knitted together with the others’.

As the carriage lurched forward, Inigo noted Gerome was sitting as straight backed as he, stiff as a statue. And contemplating the riveting dusk outside. You’re no help at all. The leather seating creaked beneath him  and he was about to blurt out something in equal measure inappropriate and inane when Sumia shifted, air at once clearer and tone friendly as she leant forward, eager for an answer.

“So, Gerome told me you’re the master of this evening— where’re you two headed?”

Wind whistled between his ears, the question heralding the arrival of the obvious. Inigo’s mind went blank.

“I’m sure these gentlemen are well aware of their status as Shepherds,” Sir Frederick scowled at them both and, Gerome—to his credit— didn’t flinch, “and will conduct themselves as such.”

“Honeybear, please relax.”  She nudged Sir Frederick slightly and a modicum of severity left him.  Inigo refused to allow his face to react to the pet name. “I’m sure the restaurant won’t have passed the first course yet. It is after all practically in the Shepherd’s honor, and I’m so excited!” Lady Sumia giggled, hand covering her mouth.

“Ah, y-yes,” Inigo cleared his throat to steady his lies, “we’re looking forward to the meal as well, milady.” Masked eyes scanned his profile. “It’s, uh, been a long time of rations.”

“Indeed.” Sir Frederick nodded in approval of their nights plan. “You were on the field today, correct?” Inigo affirmed his question and his gaze flickered over to Gerome. “And you?”

“No Sir, I haven’t been cleared for the active roster yet.”

Lady Sumia tilted her head, curious. “Why ever for?”

Gerome succinctly explained his healing injury. It sounded far removed from the worry its place had in Inigo’s memories.

“That’s right; you usually work together too. I saw you working with Henry today, I’m sorry.” Lady Sumia’s condolences were so sincere. “He can be interesting in his own way.”

“You’re very gracious, milady, thank you.”

“Interesting is putting it kindly,” Sir Frederick paused, as if reflecting on some old occurrence, “I’ll check Robin’s evaluation schedule, surely she can move you to the top of the list.”

“You do me a great service, Sir.” Gerome relaxed his spine by a fraction.

“It’s always a relief to fight with someone you can trust. Why once you’ve made quite the match, it’s nigh impossible to part,” Lady Sumia squeezed her husband’s hand affectionately, “though one day your teamwork could surpass ours, especially since I’m not much use…”

“Egad, your talents are unparalleled, why if every Shepherd had your willpower, this war would be over a fortnight past.” Frederick was so aghast that Inigo smiled inwardly.  

“Hardly Lady Sumia,” Inigo protested and Gerome nodded stiffly, “but it is an honor to hear we may hold such lofty aspirations.”

“I’m sure you’ll reach them in time-oh!” Sumia swayed in her seat as the carriage roughly transitioned from the compacted dirt trail to cobbled streets. Frederick’s sure hands steadied her.

The horses plodded along, deeper into the heart of town. Homes and businesses alike flittered by, some holding a soft darkness, others lit from within. The scent of burning wood filtered into the cabin, hearth fires lit against evening chill. Faint strains of music and chatter reached them as soon as the carriage stopped outside a thatched roof building, doorman wishing them good evening as they exited. After exchanging polite farewells, Frederick and Sumia strolled over the cobblestones and into the restaurant, his hand on the small of her back. 

Taking what seemed the first proper lungful of breath in the last half past, Inigo was bracing for Gerome to call out their ill-planned excursion. None came, as Gerome was several paces ahead before he halted, looking over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Inigo fell into step as it hit him full force—he hadn’t eaten a morsel all day. He’d gotten by with less. But the smells emanating from the door were a lure he couldn’t resist.

Inside they were greeted heartily, fireplaces in the room blazing and adding to the hospitality they’d been shown. Heavy candelabras hung overhead and the banquet room was awash in flickering golden light. A small troupe played songs in the next chamber, people already dancing. Inigo tapped his foot beneath the table once they were seated, the jaunty tune infectious.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected much: thin watery soup little better than that at camp, a knobby roll. He’d be grateful of course but dishes piled high with cold meats, pickled vegetables and sugared fruits far exceeded his hopes. More plates of things he’d no name for other than they were presented beautifully. A centerpiece in its own right, crown roast of beef crusted with enough pungent spices he could smell it from afar.

Inigo only dimly noted the other Shepherds.  Captain Chrom and Robin were at the head of the table but his vision was blurring at the edges.  It’s more food than I’ve seen in years. There was a lump in his throat and he tried to work it out before anyone noticed.

“Are you crying?” Dammit.

“No.” Inigo pretended to be interested in the ceiling but Gerome’s suspiciously shiny eyes were doubtful.

Glasses filled with wine and a short speech later they began to eat in companionable silence. The atmosphere was untouched by their daily strife and seemed as if a dream. But if for a moment they’d forgotten they were at war, it only bolstered that this was the world they were fighting for.

“What is this?” Inigo gestured towards the newly replaced tray bearing a tower of vibrant purple-red cubes and Gerome shrugged.

“Try it and see.”

Not one to back away from a challenge, Inigo swallowed the wiggly square in one bite after giving it a perfunctory chew, “Yeeurgh.”

“You’ve never had one before.” No judgement apparent, Gerome’s laughter was so quiet yet melodic it might have slipped between strains of violin notes. “I think it’s a jelly.” He plucked what was, in Inigo’s opinion, an incredibly tiny piece off the tray. “The ones I remember Father having were sweet though—” Gerome never talked about his parents, much less Gaius, who upon a brief scrutiny of the room, was predictably casing the dessert table. That must be where he inherited his consistency.”—do you?”

“Huh?” 

“I said you don’t eat many vegetables…”

Inigo evaluated his plate of roasted meat, gravy and buttered potatoes. “Guess not?”

After that, if it looked delicious and not liable to move on the way down, Inigo set forth to taste it. Who knows when I’ll next see a meal like this? Glazed pheasant, a preparation of eggs that melted on his tongue, those were agreeable.  Radishes were okay, made better by Gerome’s suggestion of butter and salt. Gerome ate the green tops as well; Inigo had to draw the line somewhere. Inigo stopped asking what Gerome was eating once he’d answered _snail and mushroom pie_.

“Why do you hate yourself?”

“Don’t condemn what you don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me.” They locked gazes for a moment before Gerome conceded with a _be-my-guest_ motion. Inigo speared what was hopefully the perfect balance of a polite taste and sparing his taste buds. It tasted only of mushrooms and leeks, perhaps the chewier bits were snails. “Not bad, it’s not crunchy at least.”

“You are a fool.” Gerome turned away slightly but Inigo caught the corners of his mouth twitching upwards anyway. 

Inigo had a brilliantly witty comeback, however the kitchen staff brought out the dessert course and he was understandably distracted. Several types of fruit jellies which Inigo didn’t trust anymore, fig cakes glistening with honey, puddings and tarts. He managed to find more room, to his protesting stomach’s disfavor, distantly wishing to have two as Sir Stahl’s legendary appetite seemed to suggest.

“May I?” Not waiting for a response, Gerome nabbed the mint garnish off his peach tart. Once he saw he was opting to eat only that, it grew late into the evening, all between them easy conversation.

“You had no idea this was happening,” Gerome sipped the last dregs of wine from his glass. “I suppose I should be thanking Lady Sumia. If left to your whims, we’d be on our third round of beers.”

 _We_ stuck out in his mind for some reason, but Inigo couldn’t pinpoint why, digestion slowing him down. Yet his face warmed and he glared, too full to carry any real impact.

Candlelight dappled the cobblestones as they left the restaurant into the star studded night, awaiting their ride to camp. Inigo had eaten and drank way too much. His eyelids grew heavy, the scent of mint on Gerome’s breath when he told him the carriage arrived more on his mind than getting into it.

 

◊◊◊ 

 

True to his word, Sir Frederick saw that Robin evaluated Gerome’s progress. His shoulder panged only the once when Robin heartily clapped him on the back. Ever the stalwart ally, his mask covered any trace of emotion. He trained until his shoulder blades ached from fatigue over residual pain. Repetitive movement cleared his mind until there was nothing left. Especially not Inigo.

There was a time when Inigo blighted his days, a true pest. Gerome hadn’t come to the past to make friends. Robin had forced them together, initial preferences to work alone utterly disregarded. Inigo proved himself a strong ally in time, facetious demeanor notwithstanding. Strength was all that mattered in the end or fate would claim you.

If not for a particular sleepless night leading him to reconsider, Inigo would’ve remained a simple nuisance. Curiosity piqued and an open invitation under the guise of Minerva, his dancing allowed him to notice something anew. 

The sun’s rays were slanting through thin cloud cover when he began another set of strikes, working to achieve better competence with a lance. Learning on the battlefield was foolhardy. He practiced until his muscles were no longer willing and he had to stop, appetite beckoning him to the mess tent.

It was mostly deserted at this time of day, too early for lunch yet breakfast an afterthought. He caught bits of conversation in his solitude. Rumors of war meetings set a collective dread settling over camp, increased tenfold as Robin called them together. 

She raised her hands, beseeching their silence.

“We make for the Outrealms. Pack what you can, we leave at dawn.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I totally theorize Gerome, Cherche, pretty much anyone from Rosanne as French speaking, just as a heads up since I forgot to include that first author's note.  
> A chapter in which Gerome and Inigo get a little closer.

There were not enough horses for everyone, foot soldiers forced to live up to their name. Inigo walked among them, smiling and joking in an attempt to combat their grueling pace as vanguard. He would retire to their tent, taking off his boots and Gerome would politely look away. Until one day he didn’t.

Daybreak was only a notion, the night’s campfires a smolder of smoke from the attendants’ buckets. Inigo, legs outstretched and whetstone in hand, tended to an iron sword not his own. Inigo looked up as Gerome approached, confused.

 “Why are you here, where’s Minerva?”

 “Minerva needs rest,” Gerome pointedly avoided his gaze, easing himself to the ground beside him, “its morale support.”

“Careful,” Inigo leaned in, as if sharing a great secret, “morals will give you blisters.”

It was two more days of walking before they reached the outskirts of Regna Ferox, exhausted. The thought of Feroxi housing bolstered spirits and Gerome was loath to admitting his morals were misplaced with every step.

 

 ◊◊◊ 

 

They settled into the Khan’s manor, its high stone walls promising warmth and comfort. Flavia’s attendants welcomed them and their liege with a rough sort of charm. The announcement of a marching hiatus to restore supplies and brace for the impending snowstorm left the soldiers grateful for poor weather.

Most soldiers, for Inigo was not one of them. His feet may have ached for days on end but his true worry was next he was able to dance, he’d have forgotten the most basic of movements, any sort of practiced grace sapped from his body by disuse. His pains were nothing a length of bandages couldn’t absolve. He’d stuffed his dancer’s uniform into his pack when Gerome stepped into their quarters.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see. “ Inigo turned to him, face grave. “I need to borrow Minerva.”

“She isn’t some piece of equipment—”

“Yes, yes I’m aware,” It was better to interrupt this beginning tirade before it got out of hand.  “She’s a lovely patron and I could use her opinion.” _Yours wouldn’t be too bad either._ “If she won’t mind a rough start, it’s been a while.”

“You’re not taking her unsupervised.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Plans set, Inigo—choreographing every step in his head—went into the larder and grabbed a small loaf of bread, cheese, and a pair of apples plus one more for Minerva upon second thought. It would serve as toll for ferrying them to the field they now stood in. Inigo put on his loose dancer’s shirt, fixing the sash, at home if not threadbare. So absorbed in stretching, Inigo didn’t notice Gerome until he returned with kindling tucked under one arm.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Flint in hand, plumes of visible breath escaped Gerome’s mouth.

“Feroxi winters are in my blood.” Inigo toed off his boots, frost seeping past layers of bandages. He walked away, mentally center stage when he halted. He drew a heavy breath before he settled into the first step.

Inigo followed the composition in his head, steps stiff at first. His critiquing voice got louder— _awkward and terrible, your body lines neither sharp nor graceful_ — and his next movements were off. He almost stumbled, sure even Minerva could never overlook such a fault, and in an attempt to correct his balance, fell. He sprang to his feet in an instant. Determined to see it through, he cast a glance at a far point above Minerva and Gerome. He held the stance but a moment before running through the routine again. Swaying to the music in his head, a tether released in him, steps fluid and sure.  He turned in rapid succession, spotting Gerome as a fixed point.  The curve and twist of his hips countered the rigid set of his spine, and he carved a line through the air with his legs. With an undulating almost beckoning gesture of his outstretched arms, he stilled to Minerva’s resounding chirps.

“Thanks for the praise Minerva.”  Walking towards her, she pushed her snout into his hand and he patted her lightly.

“It’s not unwarranted.”

“It was dreadful but thank you.” Inigo kept his voice low, knowing well what happened last he criticized himself before Minerva.

“You made an error and kept going. I ad—“ Gerome held his tongue,  “you got back up is all.”

 Inigo returned to his imagined mark, a little more passion to his movements. He ran through the routine several more times—all hard edges and leg lines— until he’d worked out most of the difficult patches. His chest felt open and light, satisfied with his progress. Minerva was perhaps bored of him for she’d curled into herself, tail forming a perimeter around the fire and Gerome, who at some point, took off his mask.

Inigo jammed freezing toes into his boots and plopped down beside him. The exercise left him peckish, asking Gerome what he thought while he dug through his pack for food. Not wanting to be rude, Inigo split the loaf and handed him half. Gerome commended his talents around a hastily eaten mouthful.

Inigo was in the middle of making a cheese sandwich when brilliance struck him. Spurred on by the perfect solution to repay Gerome’s late nights spent watching him practice, Inigo devoured the thing while ruminating over how to do this properly. Gerome lounged in the grass, eating an apple by the slice with that knife he always pulled from nowhere.

 “Owain and Cynthia are getting married.” It was best to bring this up delicately.

“So it seems. I’m happy for them.” Gerome sounded more bored than anything of the sort.

“There will probably be dancing.” He nudged his outstretched leg with his boot.

“Customary, I’ve heard.”

“Come on,” Inigo wiggled his fingers like bait to a particularly stupid fish as he stood, “Show me what you’ve got.”

“You’ve seen me dance before.”

“Not without it looking like you had rigor mortis.” Gerome drew his shoulders in, frowning. “Yeah kind of like that.” Inigo was going to rescind his offer completely when  Gerome pitched the core behind him, muttering something that sounded like an oath.

Gerome stood and moved his arm in more of a twitch before balking. “I’m not like you. I can’t dance without music.”

Inigo assured him it was fine, gripped his hand, and he responded in turn, the free one coming to rest awkwardly at his waist, grip harsh. Gerome was not just stiff but unyielding, leading them in a roundabout circle. When he drifted Inigo into a lazy spin upon the return, Inigo gave his hand a slight squeeze.

“Relax, it’s just me.” Perhaps it was the wrong choice of words from the look crossing his features.

“Minerva deserves better entertainment than this.” Inigo peered over his shoulder— she was giving them a curious look but not altogether enthused, more concerned with curling up near the fire.

“Okay point taken,” Inigo dropped his hands and retreated, worrying the inside of his cheek. “Ah this will do. Look I’ll lead and then you can repeat it afterwards.” Meeting no complaints he continued. “First of all, loosen up.” 

Inigo took both his hands then and keeping his arms extended led them into a swaying step until Gerome’s back lost that drawn bowstring appeal. His hand on a somewhat more relaxed waist, Inigo lead him through the steps, intoning the four counts aloud. In a streak of pure impulsivity he dipped him. It wasn’t even a particularly deep one but Gerome went from wide-eyed to glaring in an instant as they broke apart.

“Dancing is supposed to be exciting.” Inigo tried his best to hide a grin, he truly did.

“Be that as it may,” Gerome picked at invisible lint on his sleeves. “My turn?”

He moved closer as an assent, hand upon his shoulder. Gerome led with more confidence this time at least. Without the mask on and barring the marred bags beneath his green eyes, the firelight cast a warm glow across his features, highlighting his cheekbones. Their footsteps crackled over the frost tinged grass. Inigo could count the tiny constellations of freckles on his cheeks. Separated, their rejoined hands formed a private bower over their heads. He was certain Gerome could feel the heat radiating from his face.

“S-stop staring…”

“I…” he lowered his head, lashes cast down at their moving feet, “my apologies.” Inigo’s gaze dropped to where his full bottom lip was captured by his teeth.

“Don’t look down you’ll—” A shock of pain. “Step on my feet.”

“If I am to look at neither you nor the ground, where should I focus?”

Inigo had no answer and in lieu of anything else began the four counts aloud again. For a moment there was something altogether fond in Gerome’s gaze and his stomach flipped against his will. He grew quiet as their dance reached an even cadence, though when they parted, Inigo nearly started at the sight of Minerva.


	3. Chapter 3

The cold harsh light of a winter’s morning passed diffused onto his face, the tiny window of their shared quarters flanked by snow. The hearth grew dim, a slow ebb of dull embers that Gerome chose to ignore. Inigo could rekindle it once he woke up, though from the unusual snores he emitted, it would be a while.

Gerome, unsettled from last night’s excursion, scrubbed a hand over his face only to recoil at its missing feature. Too close to a fever dream best left forgotten, he’d not replaced the mask upon retiring. He was careless. A meal would clear his mind. Donning both mask and decent clothes he headed for the dining hall.

He met with Laurent there, easily spotting his friend. It seemed as if the time they hadn’t spoken vanished. Exalt Lucina featured in Laurent’s thoughts as of late and Gerome listened to his woes and joys with an attentive ear. Laurent didn’t question his advice to cease forcibly ignoring the obvious bond they shared. It seemed false coming from his mouth, having never attempted to court anyone before himself. But they gravitated and complemented each other so he voiced as much. Snowdrifts gradually swelled in size as they turned to other topics.

Though he should tend to Minerva—perhaps she would need an extra blanket against the cold— Gerome saw nor heard Inigo at the dining hall so here he was instead, standing outside their closed door.  He knocked and interpreted the garbled reply as consent. Inigo was where he’d seen him last— a lump under blankets. Inigo sat up, chest bare and he noted the discarded sleep shirt on the floor, the dead cold fireplace.

“You could have said you weren’t decent.” Gerome crumpled up a leaf of Match paper to ignite the logs, relishing their warmth.

“’M wearing pants.” An ugly cough rose from his lungs, muffled by the crook of his elbow. Inigo drew his legs to his chest, head pillowed in his crossed arms, a slight tremor wracking his body. At the weight dipping the side of the mattress, Inigo looked up. “What?”

“You look terrible.” He did. The picture of abject misery.

“This is what I wake up to?” Inigo scrunched under the blankets, eyes shut.  “Don’t waste all your charm on me.”

“You were already awake.” Gerome reached over, hand on his forehead. “You’re sick.”

“Thank you, Priest Gerome, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he sneezed into the bed sheets. “I’m allergic to you.”

“That is a recent development.” He gently brushed the fringe off his forehead, “Robin will have to revise her strategies.”

“She’ll come up with something brilliant. Henry’s a great partner, the bloodlust grows on you.”

“You have a fever.”

“I’m fine.” Inigo sulked after an exasperated sigh devolved into a coughing fit. “You’re too close.” Inigo certainly dedicated himself to lying, considering he was an affront to Gerome’s personal space every day.

Gerome retreated to his half of the room, pulling a book from his pack; its pages worn from use, among the few things he brought from the future besides his mother’s wedding ring and Minerva. He absorbed himself in words as familiar to him as the plummet of his belly as a kid, Minerva’s dives of joy rather than tactical maneuvers.

He’d been with his mother then, learning about wyverns, how special they were. When he first met Minerva he shied away, uncertain, but their bond grew with time and patience— more so when she became his only family member. Reading dredged up happy memories from childhood. His mother had read this aloud to him over and over, as it was his favorite, and he skipped ahead to the best part.

But he found himself hearing less of the distant recollection of his mother’s storytelling and more of Inigo’s shuddered breathing. Winter’s chill seeping into Inigo’s bones made him more distracting. He pushed the book nearer to his face, proximity doing nothing for increased comprehension. This was impossible. Book in his lap, Gerome saw Inigo was idly scrutinizing him.

“I always thought that was a diary.” To Inigo’s credit, the gold leaf marking the title had long since worn away.

“It’s a novel,” Gerome returned the book to its place, “but it’s difficult to concentrate—”

“Sorry I’ll be sure to stop breathing.”

“That’s not what I said.” Inigo’s stomach interrupted, loud and insistent. When he moved to get up Gerome protested, “You’ll get everyone else sick.”

“What would you have me do, oh sage Gerome— starve?”

“I can’t have your sickness spreading to the others.” _Nor dealing with your nonsense._ “I’ll bring something.” Gerome let the door shutting closed behind him serve as finality before Inigo could get another word in.  

Gerome strode down the corridor, intent on going to the dining hall. His countenance did not project one of friendliness, manor staff and soldiers alike giving him a wide berth. This army could use some subtlety, Inigo most of all. At least ordinarily, Inigo as a performer embodied every nuance of his art. It was almost a shame he kept his dancing a secret. Gerome was privileged enough to know of it, though there was no inclination to divulge. It would put an end to the midnight dance practices, the way his face glowed at their combined laudations, being the one to put a genuine smile there.

Why if Inigo were able to perform for the whole of the army, there’d be no looking back. His pithy opinions wouldn’t matter. Gerome was willing to submit to Fate lest it breathe gentle upon his neck. Inigo would face Fate screaming, not of fear but intent to fight back. Sickness held nothing on him, obstinate in another way more annoying. A headache began to flourish.

Rising to Inigo’s stupid barb had been his first mistake, some bleed from proximity no doubt. Of course he knew how to dance, he was a gentleman, he just never particularly cared to exercise the habit. Much less with any effort behind it; but last night was something akin to that long ago fever dream.  Warm hands upon his shoulders and waist, the arch of collarbone half hidden under his makeshift Dancer’s costume, firelight staining his dark hair in auburn waves. He’d done everything in his power to shirk the intense déjà vu. Removing his mask, only to hope in succeeding at pulling up another. He wasn’t sure what Inigo saw of him, projection at best.  Dancing in the dark to a tuneless waltz, it was unavoidable. There was no stardust in his hair and Gerome had not been disappointed.

Inigo’s hair was soft. His own hands betrayed him. The room had been cold, the natural inclination to place his hand upon his feverish brow excusable really and any tenderness to it a lapse of judgment. His mouth grew dry, there had to be a mistake. But he came to the same conclusion and irritably snatched a plate from the table.

“Hey Gerome, having second breakfast?” Cynthia grabbed a pastry, crumbs trailing their way to her plate. Not waiting for a reply, she launched into a monologue. It could have been a conversation save how little he contributed. He half listened to her tales of convoluted heroism while mindlessly dipping from warmed vessels until her calling gained his attention. “Interesting, I’ve never seen anyone put honey on their eggs. Why are you putting honey on your eggs?”

“I...” Fluffy curds were awash in a shiny viscous ribbon. He tilted a heavy scone next to his blunder on the plate. It would absorb some of this mess, right? “I don’t know.” He threw a handful of dried fruit atop what he hoped was oat porridge and headed for the carafes, certain it was cider in the mug. He read the label twice.

When he returned to the room, Inigo lay fast asleep, mouth ajar, foot stuck out from under the blankets at an odd angle. A snotty, obnoxious, blessedly quiet for the moment Inigo, who at some point during his departure, had deigned put on a shirt. Common sense said to let him rest but he sure as hell didn’t want to eat the atrocity on the tray. Inigo propped himself up  as he shoved the tray in his direction.

Inigo blinked slowly. “Your bedside manner could use some work.” He offered his thanks and made his rounds about the meal. Predictably Inigo went for the eggs first and his nose wrinkled slightly yet he made no comment. Internally sighing, Gerome returned to his book. It seemed food kept him quiet, the noise of eating easier to tune out than that worrisome breathing every moment.

“Gerome."

“What?” He peered over the pages.

“Are we even friends? What is this”—he held up some desiccated lump balanced on a spoon—“why is everything so sweet?”

He shut the book. Obviously reading wasn’t an option. “Doesn’t your throat hurt? Honey’s good for that.” It was an excellent explanation though never would he admit to the accidental execution. He sat on the edge of Inigo’s bed to get a better look at the thing. “It’s a date.”

“It’s sugary and…” The furrowed line between his brows deepened. “You made a plate of everything you hate. Should I bid it your impression?”

Gerome filled in the unspoken _of me_. “Perhaps I should have crammed food under a crack in the door for all your inane questions— of course we’re friends, what else would we be?” He winced, biting his lip with more force than intended. He might have checked for worsening conditions but Inigo’s next words stayed his errant hand.

“As much as you’d allow.”

“That was a rhetorical question.” _What have I ever allowed?_ Inigo either cajoled or forced his way in all things. It proved in time easier to go along with the current than tread water. Gerome placed the tray on the side table and was about to slip away when Inigo slumped against the pillows and curled away from him.

Inigo blindly groped backwards, arm flopping about the covers. “Ger.” Taken aback by the nickname Inigo took advantage and found his target, grip encircling his wrist with more strength than he thought possible for the awkward angle. “I’m glad to know I fare as the imprisoned in your care.”

Voice half muffled by fabric and sickly as it were, Gerome wished to see his face. “Convicts would kill for your version of bread and water,” he weakly attempted to wrest from his too warm hand, though he only succeeded in increasing his hold. “I’m sure the infirmary would be happy to keep you.”

“Your conviction doesn’t move me.”

“If I’d not seen it for truth I’d believe you no dancer but an actor.” He yanked harder this time, dragging Inigo upright, who freed his captured arm.

“’M not faking anything.”

“I know. It’s your dramatics.”

“Fine time for you to develop a sense of humor.” Inigo covered his face in his hands. “Maribelle hates me.”

Gerome made a brief attempt to convince him otherwise as they hobbled through the halls. Inigo’s balance compromised by way of fever, he sank all the heavier against Gerome at Maribelle reigning over the infirmary. Maribelle took Inigo into her care with a gentler mien than he possessed and despite her remarking how he managed not to bleed in Inigo’s company, Gerome lingered in it before tending to Minerva.

 

◊◊◊

 

Snow became a torment, losing its glitter in the face of the Shepherds’ unrest. Robin bided their time, the urge to hurry tempered by her will to reach the Outrealms with all of her charges alive. Whatever their unknown mission, a week passed in stasis, growing malcontent as the snowstorm raged. In that time, Gerome made frequent visits to the medical ward though Inigo attributed it to cabin fever.

As he recovered, Inigo was aware of the economy of touch between them changing. Hands lingering a beat longer upon his shoulders, each time leaving a phantom in its wake. He was not a rich man, yet had plenty of currency in the art of wanting. To get over this illness, want for affection, to live to see his dreams— however secret they may be— seeing this world unmarred by the hellish one of his memories. Sorrow cocooned the people of his time and he quietly made an oath to shield the ones of now.  But what was the point when he couldn’t bring a smile to anyone, especially not Maribelle, who made her rounds to him markedly terse. He fell back on the urge to talk out his nervousness.

“At least you’ve good parents,” she eyed the herbal salve Kellam left. “One of the cleric assistants will add this to your compresses. Come—” she held fast an empty bowl and knife. “You’re due for another treatment.”

Cacophony assaulted his ears amidst his rising panic as a soldier burst through the door, “We need healers, Risen overcame the manor’s border!”

“How uncouth, yelling near the infirmed. ”

Inigo was never more grateful for an interruption in his life.

“Brady, you’ll have charge?”

“Yeah Ma, ain’t nothin’ to worry over.”

She rushed out of the room, healing staff in hand, not bothering to correct his atrocious speech.  Once the door muffled the din of battle preparations Inigo settled, his fingertips tapping out a staccato rhythm against the heavy blankets until Brady came to check on him.

“Don’t you want to fight?”

“Runnin’ a fever again?”  Brady scowled, passing his staff from hand to hand. “I help fine tending you lot.” At that he reached over, revealing the old scars on his forearm. “Whazzat?”

Minerva. She’d left a jagged line, complemented by the thick bloodletting scab at the crook of his elbow. “Guess I’d do better to come here more often?”

Brady made a show of rolling his eyes as he collected a wad of bandages and the bowl. “Yeah, you really liven things up round here. Ma coulda—” He swore when the knife clattered to the floor in his balancing act. “Just the kneader then, yeah?” As the staff glowed, blue highlighted Brady’s scar and heavy brow. The scab smoothed over, raw and itchy from rapid healing.

“You’re a saint.”

He scoffed,  “No I ain’t. Clumsy is all.”

Though it took convincing Brady he no longer felt dizzy upon standing, Inigo moved to a chair facing the window. Sundown’s rays stained the courtyard snow in shards of pink and orange, its placid shell churned by multitudes of soldiers’ boots. They talked of plans after the war, the _if we survive_ unspoken between them. What good were dreams if he let voice their unlikelihood? Inigo shifted the compress against his neck. It smelled like home— honey and sandalwood, memory sharp as the instant pinprick watering of his eyes—he would thank Father later.


	4. Chapter 4

Once the orders to move came days later, Inigo found himself nestled amongst the supplies, his usual walking amongst the foot soldiers disapproved. The march moved slow, Robin’s tactics of using fire tomes to blaze through deeper snowdrifts leaving puddles in the terrain. He was healthy enough, minus the cough that refused to subside, aggravated by the damp clime. Above all he was beyond bored, napping when the caravan leveled out and jotting sparse dance notes though he was uninspired. The journey stalled, a clutch of Risen spotted in the near lowlands. By rout their only option unless they expended every tome in storage attempting to circumvent their foes, the Shepherds doled out weapons.

Inigo’s skill led him to lay claim to a silver sword. Robin said he may as well learn now and handed him a set of axes as well. They were small, meant for throwing over close range and he stored them inside his shield. Ice and snow clotted the tread of his boots as he moved towards where Gerome might hold position. He wished for boredom now—it preferable to monsters blighting the landscape— but Inigo made his way through the ranks, searching.

 

Part of the vanguard, Gerome held taut Minerva’s reins. Her pent up energy from the slogging pace they previously endured bubbled over at the prospect of Risen so close. He spoke to her softly, native tongue intent on calming her down. Normally it would, but she flapped all the harder, his hands upon the reins her only tether to the ground. 

“ _Patience we will have our—”_  Barely distinguishable thanks to Minerva’s commotion, he heard Inigo’s footfalls in the damp earth. “What are you doing here?” Minerva stretched into Inigo’s reach, accepting the pats with a coo.

_Oh_.

“Ah, I missed you too, Minerva.” Her breath blew clouds about his smiling face, then Inigo leveled him with an unamused gaze. “I can fight. You’re stuck with me.” A staring contest of sorts took place before he had to look away. It wasn’t defeat.

Multiple horns trumpeted, gaining the Shepherds’ attention and they fell into rank. Astride Minerva, Gerome drew his lance, spine pin straight as Prince Chrom, Sir Frederick and Robin shouted orders from the front lines. With the high ground advantage, Robin instructed them, and they all trusted her with their lives. Pegasi rose overhead, shadows long and wings a comparative flutter against the solid swing of Minerva’s own. Unfortunately the preparations guided the Risen to them, though their steps were slow in the terrain.

But once they fell into range, Chrom’s Falchion pierced the sky, its soundless parallel drop releasing a fusillade of arrows. Risen hissed and moaned as they were hit, Noire’s unsettling laughter ringing out when she met her targets true, becoming vapor in the wind. Others carried the points in their ghastly pale skin, unfazed and advancing upon them in droves. Falchion made its arc again, whistle of arrow fletching prelude to the signature violet haze, already a thin fog. Arrows would soon lose their effectiveness and the snipers retreated behind mounted units. 

Gerome was loath to do so but Minerva would traverse greater distances and Inigo on foot would only slow him down, trailing behind in the snow. Inigo clambered up, hands bracketing his waist before settling beside him. Attributing the lurch of his stomach to the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh, they descended the incline.

Nearer still, those left standing were Berserkers and Warriors, chests bare and unfeeling to the cold. Before their robes could have marked them as champions of Ferox. Undead as they were, only murderous husks remained. The deafening clang of accursed weaponry against their allies steel and silver enveloped them. He guided Minerva to a throng of Risen, intent on engaging those unoccupied.

Inigo had other ideas, Gerome nary at a proper stop before tumbling to the snow and rolling to his feet, sword drawn to stab a solitary warrior. A strike that should have killed one of blood left the Risen only staggering. It drew back in a swing easily dodged. It was a feint; Inigo’s reflexes saving him from a square punch to the jaw. Grazed, he stumbled only to fight harder, mangled gurgle and a raspy shout one as it became dust.

Dispatching his own target, Gerome lashed out at him, taking the lead. 

“What in the seven hells are you doing? Stay behind me!”

“They’ve never done that before.” Inigo’s eyes were wide and unfocused, a small bloodied smile donning his face. “I’ve got you.”

Inigo turned his head and spat. Crimson dotted the snow as he wiped at his mouth with a gloved hand. “It carried a bow.”

It was a meagre comfort, facing countless more of their ilk now. Gerome tore into their enemies, lance keeping them at bay. Regained in clarity, Inigo stayed close, subsequent delivery of one killing blow after another refined in elegance.

“At least you fight well.”

“Thanks. Once I got away from your terrible meals I recovered my strength.” Inigo’s voice carried a roguish smile Gerome didn’t need to confirm by sight.

“I’ll starve you next time.”

“Ah, cruelty! Truly the worst nurse on all of Naga’s green earth.” Gerome harrumphed at the title, retort dying in his throat as they converged upon a new wave of undead filth.

The foes broke themselves against their onslaught. These Risen were sloppy but veering into overpowered, their mindless persistence daunting.

It would only serve to outlast.

Gerome’s lance impaled a berserker— its uncanny ability to survive absurd to his adrenaline addled mind— when he was truly lost, blinded by the sun. Surely it hung overhead in the sky as ever but its source was here: absorbing, emitting from Inigo’s very skin, glinting off his armor. Restorative brilliance suffused into his frame as he struck down the skewered monster. As glimmers of light waned, the blood crusting round Inigo’s mouth, even the roughness of Inigo’s yelling vanished. That was nonsense. He couldn’t tarry on it, with his lance free he held his guard, seconds later meant his head lolling in the snow.

Battle roared alongside them, human screams cut short amongst the clash of weapons. Gerome fell into rote until he parsed their weak points, clear as if reading a map. Rage not unearthed save in a dead timeline he called home manifested in pure anger and hate. A bellow left his lungs, altogether foreign. He dived low, Minerva’s belly a hairs breadth from the ground, slaying the next engaging Risen in a single hit.

His victory was brief, for the dead held no honor. There was desperation, vestiges of a will to survive in their area’s lone fighter and it leapt upon him, almost knocking him off his mount.

Its’ weight plunged him past the tipping point, one leg still trapped in the stirrup. Minerva lowered with their descent, time enough to struggle free and the sole reason his ensnared foot hadn’t snapped, bless her.

Careening into a snowbank and stunned, Gerome’s last breath would be of a thousand corpses before he became one. The warrior pinned his wielding arm, leaving his lance completely useless. 

He couldn’t act upon fear only instinct.

His free hand gripped one of Father’s old daggers, splitting a purple sliver in its abdomen, its flinch enough for him to collect the wherewithal to aim. Into a cloud of ashes. _That could never be enough._ A pair of hatchets lay next to him and he scrambled to sit up. His vision swam. Minerva curled around him, protective.

“I said I’ve got you.”  All he saw was Inigo, breath leaving in clouded puffs, hand outstretched and an arm tucked behind his back as if asking to dance. A strange oasis of peace in bedlam.

“I could have taken it,” he readjusted his mask, ignoring the look of disbelief Inigo cast toward his dagger. Minerva’s screech betrayed him as he took his arm. Inigo’s fingers came away red. _That’s mine._

“It would seem so.”

Lest he give voice to every stray thought spinning in his head, Gerome bit the inside of his cheek.

Inigo ducked away, hands feeling for something on his person, before pressing a tiny ampoule into his hand. He blurted when did he start buying useful things, much less afford an expensive Elixir. Inigo countered to mind his own wallet and drink it. Prolonged rush wearing off, the gash hurt in earnest and he didn’t intend to argue with his arm dripping ichor onto the ground.

“I owe you one.” The medicine’s taste left him heady from renewal, unbroken skin stitched fresh beneath his uniform.

Inigo muttered his savings were fine since he pocketed it from the convoy. “So you owe nothing.” Inigo retrieved the hatchets, facing away from him. “Obviously.”

“How unlike you.” Gerome was not debating ethics considering his upbringing. His appreciation for impeccable quality didn’t arise from the ether, neither did genuine kindness. “I am in your debt regardless.”

“Certainly you didn’t expect me to let you die?” He crammed the weapons under his oversized shield. “If you want to repay me so badly, Gerome, don’t get hurt. I can save my elixirs.”

Inigo squeezed his arm as he passed, swift as a figment.

Once their weight was buoyed on Minerva’s reliable back, he regained his senses. “You’d hardly need them save your inclination to jumping from Minerva.” Gerome squinted at the very memory. “Why were you glowing?”

“Guess I learned something new is all,” Inigo sighed. “I hope some ladies saw that.”

Gerome glanced to where Severa and Noire fought together. She a dangerous whirlwind of blades, sharp edges and malice with Noire behind her, sniping at anything within her scope, face contorted. “They’ve better entertainment.”

“Too bad, I was awesome. No one notices me.”

“Yes, surely we can all cease fighting to bask in your presence.”

“Well you saw, suppose that counts.”

“Hardly,” Gerome boasted. “I do not bask.” He led them towards another skirmish to sweep up any stragglers as Inigo good-naturedly agreed.

 

 ◊◊◊ 

 

The Shepherds journeyed forth—clusters of Risen beleaguering their path— as snow gave way to the withered grasslands marking the Ylissean border, bare trees clawing at the sky. At all towns and checkpoints they left behind a grinning blacksmith, stocking up every weapon and tome the coffers would allow. Villagers called to them, some in aid, others in polite offerings. As they turned away none, gratitude and weariness set round the camp’s nightly fires, foreboding its unwelcome accompaniment. Such distance yet none save Robin knew what spurred on such urgency. It wasn’t until rumors circulated to her ears that she broke silence— before mass hysteria overcame all reason— though vague explanations like the _‘call of the Divine Dragon’s Voice commanded it’_ didn’t soothe matters.

Say’ri guarded Tiki with her life in all things, even nosy soldiers.

Receiving nothing, the ranks found the crenellation of Ylisstol proper a balm quelling their fears, stone interrupting the horizon among full boughs swaying in a temperate breeze. Home or something kin enough for most soldiers, they rejoiced: at its appearance and again at the announcement of Cynthia and Owain’s wedding, for what Shepherd didn’t love a party.

With the march on brief hiatus, there was much to do and each Shepherd became family. The betrothed themselves were none too fussed, fidgeting their way through another fitting. Cooks at headquarters were toiling for a day already, moving into the castle’s kitchens at Princess Lissa’s behest.

Gathering supplies meant a budget, which Laurent was thrilled to deliver— prudent, or according to Severa, a complete cheap ass in the most literal sense. Inigo admittedly could have done without the precise haggling notes.

_This is fine_. In the wrong place at the wrong time yesterday, his mother asked to perform a ceremonial wedding dance with him for his friends. When he refused her crushed expression cut him to the quick. But desecrating her legacy while her younger self’s disappointment projected against the horrified audience of everyone he knew despite her brilliant choreography hurt far deeper. _This is better than staying behind_. Inigo kept it a mantra as Severa shoved another package into his burdened arms. It was the third stop, Cynthia’s requests for flower petals met with confusion.

“There’s gotta be someplace that’ll sell... Hey, Sev’, will you do my hair?” Cynthia walked backwards, waiting for her reply. Not the best of plans. Brady, who of course carried nothing, caught her before she fell.

“No eating dirt ‘fore you walk down the aisle.”

“’Tch she’ll trip on the way there too—” Severa’s wallflower shadow chastised her. “Fine, Noire. Consider it a wedding present. Don’t complain if I catch a tangle!”

Cynthia cheered, fists raised in victory.

“What a cheap gift.”

“Shut up, Inigo!” Severa berated him until they ducked into a storefront.

The shopkeeper cast a wary eye at the rush of noise.  Overwhelming florals wafted to his senses, cut blooms lined the walls along with tins of tea. The mix of perfumes were intoxicating and he was drawn to a display of lilies. What a perfect shop and the flowers were too good to pass up.

As Cynthia made her inquiry, understanding donned their face and they brought out muslin wrapped bundles. Doubly excited she slid the gold over while Noire unfurled one of the pouches. Nudging Severa, the pair turned in unison to focus ire upon the clerk.

“This stuff’s a week away from potpourri, what the—”

“You dare offer this dreck—”

“We make tea with the petals. It’s as close we got.” Town living made them fearless. Or senseless. “No refunds.”

“I could say the same for your life, worm, where’s my bow—”

“C’mon, Noire, let’s get some fresh air.” Brady stayed her vehement form with one hand while Severa seethed in place, mouth curled into a snarl. Better intervene before things got vicious.

“Wow, what a fine conundrum, I daresay almost as fine as yourself.” Stepping to the forefront, Inigo changed course at the cold regard directed his way. “Ah, uh, we’ve not a lot of money you see. Tight budget. Surely we can come to an agreement. We’ve not opened the others, you can still sell them as your world class tea.

“But you see the flower petals were meant for a wedding.” Clearly unmoved, it was time to up the sympathy. “It’d be a shame to pelt tea at our”—he sidled up to Cynthia, slinging his free arm over her shoulders—“I mean my lovely bride. Truly a waste of your wares.” He hoped they hadn’t heard Severa’s gagging _oh my gawds_ and jostled Cynthia at her slow uptake.

“Uhhh, right! That’s my… betrothed.” _Wasn’t Cynthia the better actress, could you sound a little more convincing?_ “All I ever dreamed of but I got him instead.” She threw an arm around his waist. He winced as something in his pocket crunched. Granted, they looked like what they were— old friends, but another customer walked in and praise Naga, it was enough.

“I suppose I could make an exception.” The space she occupied was vacant before they finished speaking. Inigo dropped his arm heavily. Nice. He pulled the flowers he wanted to buy from his pocket, stems broken. The clerk cleared their throat loudly.

“I’d intended those a surprise for my dear—”

“I don’t want anyone thinking you bought those here.” 

Free flowers weren’t bad. However the problem was the pretty maiden he tried to give it to took not a charming pity in the blooms state, but offense. Rejected, he wandered with the others through the open air market, picking up this and that. By the time they returned, he was exhausted. Sure it was romantic, a reprieve from the march and a little annoying— Owain of all people—but they fit each other.

Though evening swathed the castle, sleep was a foreign concept. It was too early for him regardless. With his mind preoccupied and no worthy distractions in his private room, Inigo roamed the halls.

Still audible through the thick oaken door, Owain was going on in what was no doubt a monologue. It would be best to interrupt before the practice became a habit.

A quick rap of knuckles and the rustling of paper. Owain opened the door, blond hair messier than usual, smudge of ink on the side of his face. Parchment strewn across his desk, Princess Lucina a supervisor to the mess, sitting composed as ever on a high backed chair.

“I did not realize you were with com—”

“I was taking my leave in a moment.” She hugged Owain as she strode past. “The last was perfect, she will see your sentiments true.” Princess Lucina bid Inigo a tiny unsmiling wave before heading towards her own quarters.

Watching her depart, a tingle ran down his neck, and he rubbed the sensation away. “This was folly. I should go.”

“Hold friend you have traversed all this way, what ails you.” Owain leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded.

“It’s easy enough to return. I walked down the hall.”

“Not before you duel, the very trees whisper scandal of your treacherous attempts to steal away Cynthia.”

Inigo tilted his head as if the new angle would help him understand. “What.”

He explained the tea shop debacle while they settled into chairs. “Surely you know I’d never…” Owain obscured his face in part with a twitching hand. “Cynthia is completely devoted to you, couldn’t keep up the ruse for an instant.” Inigo laughed in spite of himself. “You’ve ink all over your hand. ”

“You are an incorrigible flirt, not some bloated flea off a loathsome cur. I’ll pay Severa and Brady back for this, I was wrong to suspect.”

“Y-you’re forgiven,” _Just what had they said?_   He still felt vaguely insulted. Inigo gestured toward the scattered papers. “You intend to go through the entire North Wood this night?”

“Hah, I’d tear asunder the Mila Tree would it grant me words befitting my goddess.”

“Pretty blasphemous for a priest’s son. That’s what you call her now?”

“The most powerful title in all the world, nothing less would do.”

“People already have names. If this is like your naming weapons, does she receive bonus attributes?”

“Uh, what no.” Owain reddened at his jape. “For someone so intent on chatting up every girl within his radius, you aren’t very romantic. Cynthia, my most precious ally, deserves a sobriquet fitting her station. Her name in any form like the petals she scatters over the ashes of her foes, nothing more comely. A lodestar against the forces raging inside me, I’d be lost without her. Left to wander the world in poignant agony—” Gods, he would go on like this if uninterrupted for an age no doubt. Just how long were his vows? Inigo plucked one of the papers from the desk. “—Hey!”

“Hmm ‘—may the Gods bless our union and nothing stronger than death part us.’ This is a happy occasion you might want to cut back on the gloom.” In a twisted way Inigo understood but it was far more satisfying to watch his pinched expression.

Owain snatched the paper from his grasp. “That’s totally not even the right draft.”

“I can’t believe you’re getting married before me, whatever does Cynthia see in you.” Personally, he’d rather leap face first into a pit of butter scorpions than marry Owain. 

“Why the true hero of legend of course. You lack imagination.” As if slighting him summoned his muse, he began to write. Distracted, Owain waved him away and the furious scratching of quill to paper faded as Inigo made his way back to his room.

Owain was wrong. Prone on a too soft mattress, his imagination supplied plenty in his seclusion.

Heir to his father’s shadow, the maiden’s dismissal resurfaced in his mind. He rolled over violently, as if it could banish the event. Spurned advances were nothing new, though they left marks like bruised produce, soft with pressure at his recollections.

Proving itself a rule rather than exception, every pretty lady he’d gained courage to speak with only found them briefly feigning interest to get closer to his handsome friend. Gerome had reminded him it wasn’t a competition and looked increasingly bored by their attentions. By all rights he should hate him. But he didn’t. It must be anathema, some strain of magic hewn explicitly to design mutual affections out of his grasp.

Had he not made himself plain, each time discerning Gerome’s reaction unfavorable? That was the center of his problems, spun on a dais of insecurity and doubt. He’d be direct next he saw him. No. All haughty attitude, the sneer not seen in ages would return, a sure way to dash their relationship to its tenuous start. He dared not press further in that regard.

A smiling fool kept up appearances well enough, so he would go on like this, thanked or not. Heavy sighs echoed in his chambers to hang caught in the rafters. Dawn cast slanted shapes over his face as his eyelids drifted shut, what would pass for sleep left him with a haggard appearance, eyes gritty. Fine day for a wedding indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

Every man, woman, and child filled the streets of Ylisstol, their myriad song and dance distilled into a pleasant roar. Banners rose amid the masses in cheer and well-wishes. Or they would have, if the public knew of their royal union. Life continued as normal for Ylisstol’s people.

The same could not be said for those within the castle walls. Servants kept to their daily affairs, lessened by prohibition from certain rooms at the steward’s decree. The kitchens were amongst them and in their stead Shepherds bustled about, making final preparations for the wedding feast.

Inigo saw such with his own eyes, even had a hand in it. He did not plan this. Intending to skulk near the kitchens long enough to spirit away a loaf or two since he missed breakfast, he encountered Gerome, who had all the qualms in the world for letting him forage carte blanche from prepared dishes.

Instead Inigo became a taste tester of sorts, giving his totally refined opinion of dishes— surely none would be the wiser— sampled with Gerome’s supervision. He was having another sip of a boozy braising liquid Gerome swore wasn’t quite right—it was perfectly fine to his nuanced palate— when Cherche approached, closed eye smile in full effect.

“May I borrow your food critic?” Ever a beacon of filial duty, Gerome spared a monosyllabic reply.

At Cherche’s resolve, Inigo was tasked with braiding dough into intricate knots. Only he’d never done such in his life and it showed. Then she had him stuff poultry, easy enough, but trussing went well beyond his skill for they managed to loosen one limb or another in his efforts. Demoted further still, Inigo peeled vegetables. Once done he wished he’d been inept at that as well.

Carrying kitchen scraps to livestock, Inigo discovered the walk long enough so the concoction of inedible roughage and innards smelt most ardently, back and forth from barn to kitchens. He was grateful when the buckets remained empty and at once departed to the bath rooms, relieved to smell of soap as he observed his friends’ wedding.

In the private Gardens of Ylisstol Castle, amongst comrades and friends Owain waited. A far cry from his previously disheveled appearance, his usual attire exchanged for typical Ylissean noble finery, starched collar and doublet topped by a short embroidered cape. What seemed an intelligible swirl of stitched golden pattern were prayers, no doubt an addition from Libra, whose smile lifted as flower petals drifted from the sky.

Nah flew over with petals drifting from her wings before she transformed again to meld into the crowd near Morgan. Inigo tossed his head, freeing the halo of buds stuck in his hair. It was then Cynthia made her appearance.

Sir Frederick held her arm tight to ward off any missteps as they walked towards her fiancé. She a nymph in blue, flowing dress hem high enough to avoid tripping and offsetting her pearl capped shoes. She wore a brilliant smile, small flowers weaved into the plaited crown of her brown hair. Lady Sumia embraced her before Sir Frederick exchanged his future daughter’s arm for that of his wife.

Libra stood at the epicenter as he led them through the ceremony. After the lengthy prayer and blessings of Naga, Owain and Cynthia gazed at the other with twin blushes upon their faces, ready to speak their vows. Owain got as far as naming her his guiding star before emotion overcame him and he stumbled through the prompted vows as usual. At least these Inigo understood without pause. They exchanged rings and had Inigo blinked at the wrong time he would have missed the brush of lips.

“Ay, kiss her like you mean it boy!” _Vaike_ , who set off a chorus of hollering as Owain did just that.

Hand in hand, Cynthia and Owain made their exit to en masse cheering and applause. Inigo whistled as they passed. Louder than the wretched echoing ache in his chest. Once it was his turn to be received by the couple, he beamed all the harder.

“Congratulations,” he clapped Owain on the back before addressing Cynthia. “And to you, my condolences.” He gestured to himself. “For missing out on all of this.”

Owain made a disgusted noise before his irrepressible grin returned and Cynthia, face bright, giggled as Inigo glided into the Hall.

He’d not seen this place since arriving in the past. What was once ash and crumbled mortar, now whole and in complete splendor. With curtains drawn back from the single grand window, light drenched the space. Long buffet tables lined the perimeter, surfaces home to place settings and a great deal of Shepherds already. Even the walls were beautiful, carved and painted to showcase rich moments of Ylissean history. Inigo took his place at a table among friends. How strange it was, the more of the world he saw, the more he wanted to believe he could supplant happier memories.

When Owain and Cynthia entered the room Princess Lissa clasped them both, cheerful and misty eyed. Everyone carried pleasantries upon their lips, raising mugs and cups high after each heartfelt toast. At the last well-wishing, they broke into applause and Inigo glanced furtively down the table. Gerome clapped along, though his mouth set in a grim line.

Lady Maribelle with her violin alongside Sir Stahl and Lady Cordelia played soft music from the platform. The acoustics were wonderful and as the song waned Olivia tiptoed to the empty expanse of bare floor.

Surefooted, the harp flowed around her, its gentle caress propelling her body. Inigo saw tales of a great love unfold before his eyes. All motion and memory lay bound to her steps, the promise of lovers of bygone ages rekindled. Of halcyon days and nights of strife weathered in companionship. Her bangles glittered as she spun. In one flourish contained a year’s happiness, an endless stream imbued with love and grace.

She may not have been his real mother but her dance enchanted him just the same. Perhaps one day he could be the source of the smiles and awe reflected in the faces around him. As the music faded she knelt in a deep bow. Upon arising she sought out a certain pair of eyes, then his own in turn, though both of them were drowned out by thunderous handclapping.

As they died down, food was brought to the table. Heavy platters filled with vegetables steeped in cream and meat, gilded in fat and spices. A vinegary salad dressed with olives nestled against stuffed onions. There was beef stew, billows of steam and aroma served alongside hot grain rolls and knotted bread, his own imperfections notwithstanding. Stacks of hand pies and lamb, redolent under a layer of sauce. Inigo gathered what he wanted, passing items at their request. The ale was as plentiful as their table’s spirited conversation. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.” Severa eyed Cynthia and Owain who were taking their meal at the front of the room, all animated hand gestures amid bouts of lingering gazes. 

“Why it’s a natural progression,” Princess Lucina spoke up. “They fight well together.”

“That’s the most important thing.” Kjelle speared a piece of meat as if to prove her point.

“Indeed.”

“I could say the same for you.” Severa meaningfully glanced to Laurent’s right, where their Princess sat. It was the most delicate Inigo ever heard her, for she followed in her mother’s footsteps more than she cared to admit, wholly devoted to Princess Lucina.

“I am quite certain I’ve not an inkling of what you drive at, Severa.”

“Anyway,” she made a performance of rolling her eyes, “which of us is next?”

“Next f-for what?” Eyes wide, Yarne picked plant fibers out of his teeth, bad manners reflected in his father who was doing the same a table over.

“Duh, marriage— not the executioner’s block!” Severa pointedly stared at Yarne. “Though there’s such slim pickings around here.” Yarne continued eating, clueless, while Noire laughed into her napkin. “Thanks to you, Nah, numbers are dwindling fast.”

Nah started as if she’d been struck by lightning magic.

“I thought we agreed to wait until… Did you tell her,” Morgan’s whisper grew louder _._ “H-how did you find out?”

_What the hell._

All eyes swiveled to them.

Save Princess Lucina, who countered. “Now that all our friends know, tell Mother and Father.” 

“I am waiting for… the greatest tactical advantage?”

“You only make things worse.” They carried on in a dialogue of raised eyebrows.

“Is anyone else secretly married,” Severa pinned him with a smirk. “I know you’re not, Inigo.”

“Why settle for one smiling lass when I could have all the world’s ladies swooning at my very name.” He willfully ignored Severa muttering _more like vomit_.

“Aw lay off, Sev, he can’t help it, it’s a condition.”

“Exact—hey!” He stopped nodding along to glare at Brady.

“Fine,” she huffed and gingerly picked up a hand pie, nibbling at the crust.

“What about you, would you ever m-marry, Gerome?”

Noire’s soft-spoken question left Inigo reaching for the ale to steel himself for his answer. After the surprise turn of events mayhap he was secretly courting someone? Gerome was sneakier than he thought, his sullen listening all an act.

Mouth downturned, Gerome gripped his spoon at being addressed, white-knuckling his mug as he also took a long draw from it. Noire’s face flushed as time wore on with no reply.

“I m-mean it’s—”

“This is pathetic.” The small patient smile Noire carried toppled at his words. “We fight a war, I don’t think—”

“Noire, I already know,” Severa cut him off. “He would never, unless he found a way to marry that dragon of his. And pity on her honestly, what an odd marriage bed with his ego in the way.”

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”  Gerome’s jaw clenched as if biting back more words, before he, plate and all, stalked away.

“It’s okay, Severa, you didn’t have to do that for me,” Noire twisted her hands in her napkin. “I know how he is I was just, um, surprised.”

“Then he knows how I am, don’t snivel about it.”

“That was too far, you should apologize.”

“What for, Kjelle, I didn’t know he was so sensitive, Gawds.” She flicked her black hair over her shoulder. “Let him go, he’ll be back.”

The evening went on like this. There were candies and little blueberry tarts and still Gerome did not return. Though Sir Stahl could not be removed from his third meal with the encouraging of their ranks, Lady Maribelle and Lady Cordelia played into the night. Inigo picked at his slice of cake as soldiers became couples and friends, dancing in circles of embraces and clasped hands. How lovely.

Gulping the last of his ale, Inigo left their raucous laughter behind him. His boots led everywhere save to Gerome. He wandered until he was in a small manicured courtyard.

Air carrying the faintest strains of song and fragrant from night blossoms, it was a fine place to rest. So he did. Upon closer inspection, some of these plants should’ve held flowers. The gardener would mark tomorrow with confusion, patches of stripped bare shrubs here and there. Inigo laughed. Nah certainly left evidence in plain sight.

Maybe Gerome went to bed or back to the Hall. He should check. But that silhouette he recognized, pacing upon the upper walkway, there and not between rows of columns. And then he called out to it, Gerome halting his steps. Or at least he hoped, for Inigo already took to the stairwell, bounding up two at a time.

Gerome stood with his back to him, still as a squire during knighthood vigil. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you intend to stalk the castle all night, no wonder I had so much trouble,” Inigo crossed into the invisible demarcation of his personal space—broader than any man’s ought to be— and Gerome sighed in facing him. “I was looking for you.”

“You were? What did you want?”

It was his turn to sigh, less resigned and more disapproval. “My lessons go to waste. Everyone is dancing and you are doing”—he made a vague gesture—“whatever this is.”

Gerome sounded as if he swallowed his own tongue. “So you intend to dance as well?”

“No, but you should. Or do you often walk in circles for amusement?” For a moment Gerome seemed at ease but at his joke he bristled, no doubt scowling beneath the mask.

“I’ve had quite enough teasing for one night.”    

“Ah, I meant no harm. Everyone’s having a grand time and you’re out here by yourself. If you left because of Severa—”

“She’s of no consequence. Return to them and let me be.”

“Like hell I am.” Inigo— well acquainted with the creeping fears that lay beside his own bed at night— got in his face. He missed being with him earlier, selecting bites of food and Gerome granting him a reserved smile at his compliments. Now he was a fine mess, hair mussed from constantly running his hands over it. “You look so miserable.”

“Don’t you have some barmaid to annoy?” The derisive curl of his mouth was unmistakable even in moonlight. “I said I’m fine.”

 _You’ll not be rid of me that easy_. “I believe it, what with your hair like this.” He reached for the stray bit in his face.

Gerome flinched and then rounded on him. “You’re wrong, don’t tell me what I am.”

His barely formed smile, pasted on at a moment’s notice, disappeared. His hand hung still in the air. “I know you well enough to see when you’re upset.” Voice scarcely above a whisper, he let his hand drop. “You’re full of it.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” He laughed, a mean tint that made ire boil up before Inigo could check it. “You teach me dance, as if you’d ever do so your—”

Inigo heard him muffled for the blood rushing in his ears. “Enough. I thought my help a favor. But you mock me after all.” His knuckles wound in Gerome’s shirt, dragging him closer. Gerome’s breath blew hot over his face and Inigo held his gaze best he could though Gerome’s eyes flickered down. “Like your precious time is better spent, we aren’t celebrating for nothing.”

For a moment Gerome stayed heavy-lidded and dazed before the words hit him. “It’s common sense! Why do I seem to be the only one to have it?” Gerome wrested free of his grip with a force that sent Inigo staggering backwards. “I don’t want to… Don’t do me any more favors. They are nothing but cruel.”

“You think yourself better than us. Nothing’s changed.” Inigo righted himself, blinking rapidly. His arm struck a pillar and he was too stubborn to rub the ache away.

“No that’s not—”

“Shall I be improved if I were more like you, brooding and lonely yet too afraid to say it?”

At this Gerome’s mouth parted in a perfect circle before he turned away. Back straight as if he were at attention on the front lines, Inigo wasn’t sure he took in the beauty of the garden anymore. His voice wandered solemn across the courtyard, perhaps the words easier to say to greenery than Inigo’s face.

“ _Merde_ , you could get blood from a stone. Like everything else.”

The retort he held ready gave way to pure bemusement. “What do you mean?”

Gerome, saying nothing, unfastened the mask.

Inigo could only take in his profile, an ugly crescent under his eye like a bruise. Gerome’s voice was steady, soft as before, and for all that continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“When whatever hardship lies before us, we abandon all reason to celebrate. If we let down our guard in the eleventh hour, what of us on the morrow? These indulgences do me no favors.” The mask dangled from his fingertips, a wavering pendulum. “We march towards hell, I’m sure of it.”

Inigo couldn’t recall this person before him. “You are so convinced no one feels the way you do.”

“Then, you have my apology, trust it is sincere.” He saw the truth of it marked in his eyes so strong it took him aback. Speechless, he nodded in acceptance. “Whatever’s on the horizon, they’re pacifying us. Gods I didn’t come here to…  We bear enough burden as it is, why must we shoulder another…”

“We’re Shepherds.” Inigo reached out to him, hand on his arm. “It’s what we signed up for, or inherited really. You don’t deserve to be lonely. And no matter what I’ll fight with you. And Minerva.” He wasn’t sure if it was enough but Gerome appeared satisfied.

Time travel had its boons, the night sky formed a shimmering blanket overhead. Inigo couldn’t recall last when he saw the stars from his own time. Sometimes, they would flicker between clouds of smoke. He was forgetting. Perhaps it wasn’t only him. Gerome peered as if taking in the stars were a great strain— he seemed to regard everything in that light— like the world without his mask were a difficulty.

Half enamored with the sky’s open possibility, Inigo felt things weren’t all awful. They were shoulder to shoulder. A terrible future could be avoided yet. If he made it, he could do more than survive once it was over. What hopes did Gerome hold for his own future, the question left his mouth before he could withdraw it. He’d heard this before in a spare moment on the battlefield, that adamant insistence on returning to a ruined future. The coolness of the stone soaked into the muscles of his back as he sat against a pillar, traded for the small warmth of Gerome’s arm.

Like a pair of lazy sentinels upon the terrace, Gerome told him of his promise to Minerva, in building a home for her. Gerome, who had a plain way of speaking when he was comfortable, was accompanied by the faint burble of a fountain. He spoke of Rosanne, its green hills dotted with wild roses that gave its namesake. Bathed in nostalgia, the memory of it lent an excitement to his voice. Stables he would build fit to rival the Ylissean one Minerva occupied now. Something suited for royalty, it was no more than she deserved having saved them both countless times.

What about you, Inigo said. Or did he plan on sleeping in the next stall over. Gerome smiled, a lopsided little thing, as if both sides of his mouth could not give in.

After entrusting one of those rare smiles to him, Inigo listened with rapt attention. There was a picture drawn in words. He could feel the heat of the hearth and gravitated on impulse to Gerome’s side, a fleeting pause before his weight was supported.

The moment his mother’s grave laid near a stream holding its own musicality, home died for Inigo. In the spring flowers grew there, pink as her hair. Or were they white? No they were pink, surely. He was ashamed at the momentary uncertainty.

But for Gerome to make a home for himself when by all rights they shouldn’t exist left something raw, longing and all the more foreign in his chest. And he made a silent oath for him to see that dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really motivates me when you guys comment! I'd love to hear feedback from you! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

The looming gates to the Outrealms glowed a steady red even in midday sun. Oppressive and choking, briny air compacted into Inigo’s lungs as Princess Lucina marched from the flimsy war tent. Her parents called her there a half past, halting their party while the rest of the army disappeared into the gate, a blinding flash as they did so. With each burst of light it he noticed something was amiss and a bead of sweat trickled over Inigo’s neck to join the spreading stain dampening his collar. Princess Lucina approached, face set in a stern fashion as Laurent flanked her side, completing their group of friends. In the seconds of silence before she spoke, there lay an age.

“We aren’t to come with them.”

Her next words were drowned in the ensuing chaos of outcries, blurred together in one protest. Their Princess allowed them this. With a raised hand, she deemed it enough and all quieted.

“Our parents, they go to our future. Naga herself commanded it. Come, we must set up camp.”

Bustling company whittled to thirteen, Inigo couldn’t overthrow the despondency Princess Lucina’s further explanation plunged him. Laurent brought up irreparable time paradoxes and Yarne shuddered in his signature pitchy way while Nah attempted to comfort him. The smile Inigo mustered didn’t reach his eyes, no matter as it went unnoticed. He slogged through establishment of camp as night enveloped them, the supper campfire a solitary beacon of hope. He stared into its flames. Until the indelible red behind his eyelids muddled its source.

 

 

“Brady please help he—“ Owain rushed into the med tent with Cynthia in his arms, gentle in setting her down on the nearest vacant pallet. Though Inigo couldn’t understand the words, Owain’s tone was watery as Brady worked around the hand Owain would not release.

 _Not her too._ If she was like the others— the pestle slipped from his palm, clatter against the herb filled mortar a mirror of his frayed nerves. Earlier, Kjelle murmured to Yarne mere seconds before her undiscerning eyes rolled back, succumbing to strange sleep again. Yarne wouldn’t speak after that, tending to her bedside with a concentration usually afforded escaping fights. Inigo steadied his faltering hands. She breathed as all the others.

Yet be it curse or hex that bound their minds in its fist, none would wake proper. Nah slept with the deepness of her manakete kin, her husband mute as she. Noire was rendered prey to its clutches despite her charms and amulets. Severa held faith in her skills, for she leaned over Noire’s bed to dab oil to her temples and bright florals mingled with the astringency permeating the tent.

Steam smothered the perfume when Inigo strew ground herbs into hot water. His eyes leaked tears unbidden. Dots and colors sprang before his vision, palms too rough in scrubbing away his sensitivities.

When the infusion cooled he neared Cynthia first, hoping it would provide relief. Owain knelt by Cynthia’s bedside, forehead to his knees in supplication. He rose at Inigo’s footsteps.

“I’ll do it.” And so he did, wrung out cloth a legendary weapon bent upon aiding his wife.

 

◊◊◊ 

 

No matter where death may claim them—as time travelers they belonged nowhere— a burial here was the same as anywhere else. In the interim of a blink Gerome’s shovel met resistance against soil, back unbowed while his mask dams the pressure building behind it. Taking stock of his surroundings, the ever changing gauzy shadows above his bedroll, Inigo’s even breathing from the other side of the tent, each passing moment is a reminder— no one died on this night.  He closed his eyes again only to be back amongst the supply shelves, head filled with a list of herbs for ailments. How close they came to losing nearly half their company, each a presence missed. Unabated, his pessimistic imagination foisted horror after horror until tending to Minerva became his only solace, for surely that would do wonders in clearing his mind. 

“You shouldn’t go out alone.” Inigo, voice thick with anything but sleep, roused from his cot as a rectangle of moonlight angled across the floor. Gerome feigned engrossment in surveying the hushed circle of camp. Improperly extinguished, the central campfire burnt down to embers, whoever assigned the task forgetful. _Each tent holds the same number of occupants as yesterday._

“Bring a lantern.”

Strange how light Inigo’s footsteps when he wasn’t trying, no effort put into making his presence known. Common as the cadence with which he moved, Inigo usually met him stride for stride— a casual lockstep where their shoulders occasionally brushed— diverging set Gerome on edge in another way. Still bracing himself for a touch that does not come, they reached the stables.

Minerva stirred as they drew closer, her wings a leathery rustle against the walls. He stood aside, Inigo disappearing with her as he mucked out the pen. With that completed, he grabbed her tack. Perhaps the camps’ energy bolstered her aversion but it takes minutes of cajoling to get the bit on her, her shedding teeth leaving her unamenable.

On this night where neither could sleep, they flew far from camp where gloomy trees thinned to a slice of beach. Doled out to them was an unfair portion of strife. Trinkets kept as mementos of parents grown indistinct by the years. Stranded as it were with his allies struck by unseen forces, unfair was inadequate. Being right held no satisfaction for Gerome and he stared out upon the tide clawing against the shore.

Minerva—relieved from escaping the makeshift stables tight quarters—  played in the surf. It did him good to see her, a reminder of her steadfast companionship; her delighted shrieks in sharp contrast to his mood as she splashed about. And got into trouble.

“Hey, no drop that this instant.” Minerva obliged after her tail meted out a loud smack to the water. “If you want another supper there’s more wyvern feed.” She groused in response.

“Why don’t you let her have the little creature, save yourself the bother.”

“She’s replacing teeth— unless you want to help me pull pin bones from her jaws?” Inigo made as unenthused a sound as he expected. Minerva flapped to his side, blowing breath hot and sulfuric over them. Such attitude. At the edge of the lantern’s light Minerva curled up to sleep, her form serving as a buffer against the suffocating grove of trees to their backs.

Gerome reveled in seclusion but Inigo fell back against the sand, limbs spread wide like a starfish. The air left him in a rush from impact, hand nearest Gerome repetitively sifting sand. Inigo’s fidgeting bothered him. By slow design or faltering will, the ability to ignore his every gripe and whim relented to a single question.

“What’s the matter, we can go to camp if you—”

“Here is just as well,” Inigo rushed to sit up with a weak smile, sand clinging to him. “I’m fine as I can be— there’s nothing like watching friends nearly die.” Inigo’s laughter held no joy. “Morgan doesn’t remember anything. Typical. If only the others were so lucky. I don’t want to see anyone else like that.

“We fought to come here for none of it to matter. All this time you were right and nothing I could do helped.” His words were drawn as a sword from its scabbard. “What hope could I have to protect anyone, an inept dancer with no audience. I thought them lost to us, not to an honorable death but this Spell. I don’t want anyone else to suffer. I’d rather disappear.” Eyes locked in a thousand yard stare, Inigo’s hand clenched, still burrowed in the sand.

Of all his efforts, concealing how Inigo sent Gerome’s world tilting manifested itself in a single flinch. Bitter words ill-suited his tongue and such misery an injustice in stealing away the smiling mask Inigo wore with grace. It would not slip away. Not in the thin line of an unhappy mouth, the slump of his shoulders. With heavy thoughts slotted in the furrow of his brow, Inigo remained immutable.

Witness to his unwavering resilience breaking, Gerome moved of his own volition. Peeling off his riding gloves, the liminal space between their hands served as a point of no return. In crossing, Inigo entrusted his hand to Gerome as he brushed over his knuckles, sand falling with the motion. In as much of a reassurance for himself, he repeated they are all alive having weathered time travel and countless battles.

“A great many fights I couldn’t recount now if not for you parrying blows meant for me. I never gave a thought to where I’d die. A mire, a ruined castle. Though I’d not thanked you, for what it’s worth I’d miss you. Not only for that. You were my—” Gerome halted his rogue tongue lest it incriminate him further, absorbing his attentions in Inigo’s crescent imprinted palm.

“I didn’t do it to be thanked. I’d not expected it from you. I’m your what now?” Voice teasing and light enough to assuage a greater fear, guilt settled in Gerome’s chest that won’t abate. It was a weighty admittance. He could fly away on Minerva, leave him to navigate the thicket of trees. There was enough oil in the lantern. Probably. Instead Gerome ceded to the thrumming beneath his skin, in the marrow of him, mirroring the way he attempted to smooth Inigo’s rumpled palm in the lengthening silence.

“Inigo.” He can’t face him. “I’ve been less than a friend to you. Olivia asked if I could convince you to change your mind, dance at the wedding. I didn’t try at all.” _You’d never look to me again_. “Even in watching Olivia perform, your face is so enthralled. Prithee forgive me but you belong on a stage and to imply you were unfit, I’d never wanted that. The world would be remiss to deny your talents.” Palpable as a touch to his cheek, Inigo’s gaze compelled him to reciprocate _._ “If I’ve ever been right about anything I know this. But you are no burden, your talents are worthy of admiration, to waste performances on us... I’m sorry for suggesting otherwise.”

Silence stretched between them overlong before Inigo unbowed his head.

“I’d already said no. If I’ve regrets then I will live with them, for you to believe in me that much I’m both speechless and given strength. But perhaps if you’d been intent on holding my hand.” An impish grin spread across his face as he folded their hands together properly. “Though you surprise me, I’d no idea you’ve such a knack for impassioned speeches.”

“I can be moved occasionally.” Gerome’s neck grew hot despite his own gentle laughter. “When necessary.”

_If it’s you._

 


	7. Chapter 7

Foul was the air, torrential rain desaturating the atmosphere to wet clay. All the world made nondescript dulled Inigo’s mind to numbness with the sludge of memory. A harried if not successful journey back to Ylisse— Gemstones in tow—hindered by the felled bridge, a carcass in the ravine below. He was bound to the grey of the land on a half-remembered precipice, relieved the sword at his side were not his only companion.

Water dripping from his aquiline profile, Owain’s skin adopted an ugly pallor to match their surroundings. Owain wasn't wearing Cynthia's favor, a bright cloth marked with her knightly crest. While not magic— despite how Owain often proclaimed so before they wed— it displayed Cynthia's affections for all to see and without it his theatrics distilled to nothing, usual vibrancy faded round the edges as yet another ill omen.

Melding shapes from the corner of his eye choked the horizon, undead horses carrying their riders forward. No bodies would mark this fight save their own. Owain sprinted, near silent until meeting the right flank with a clash of metal breaking Inigo’s trance. A lumbering creature sensed Inigo first, sluggish but no less vicious. He followed through on muscle memory alone, narrow the margin keeping his head intact. The blade he wielded strangely weightless and Inigo held fast the hilt, as if pressure would make solid the world. Against the same void bracketing his back as well as residing in his mind, all he had was persistence; if it were lost, he could reunite with his parents.

As a small boy, he ran to Mother in tears, believing Father lost whilst playing hide and seek. Leading the search, she quieted his hiccups. Once having found him, she made an illusory respite for them all, house filled with song as before. But the peace of their days were a moment’s rest between breaths when Father answered the call to action from Ylisse as a knight on a companionless march. The gravity of their goodbyes urged Inigo to keep eyes on him until the last, a solitary brightness against early morning’s fog. Very little word reached their home yet when Sir Frederick delivered a parcel of bound letters Inigo heard none of his condolences, the saffron colored fragment of  his shield— all of his father’s valor and sacrifice— was small enough to fit in his hands even then. When his mother chose to fight years later, he smiled as she wished and hid all his crying for his shirtsleeves at night.

Another blow grazed him, the monster’s indignant squall not quite reaching his ears. An axe swing to flay his flesh from bone promised a messy end, the blood in his mouth familiar yet empty of taste. His parents could be proud like this, serving as a decoy to keep those gemstones and—more importantly— his friends, out of enemy hands. Stuck in a deadlock of weapons, Inigo banished his wandering thoughts. They would all live, see the world as it should be. His resolve couldn’t break, not now and he tore through the enemy so it may all stop.

  

 

Air sour in his lungs, the smell of the medical tent became overwhelming as Inigo blinked to consciousness from the cot’s valley. Pressure settled at the base of his skull, demanding his muddled attentions. Determined to ignore it, he instead fixated on Gerome, his vision allowing a blurred view of his hands.

Tip of a dagger glittering, it beckoned, twisting into something obscured, cradled in his cupped palm. For all his brusque mannerisms Gerome displayed a balance of gentle care and consideration as he worked. Curiosity piqued, he shifted to get a better view. His entire body protested in pain though squeezing his eyes shut invited the screams of villagers.

“Inigo—

_If it is your wish to stay, that is your choice. I will not stop you._

They evacuate all they can, yet the nearest villages are mass pyres on the horizon and despair at failing so many crushes him. His disfigured shield is beyond repair from Risen claws and Minerva’s talons pushing him to safety. Even now, in the lower quarter, in a deserted hovel where the stone floor is always damp, Gerome splints together Inigo’s fingers— two sprained on his sword hand— using a makeshift bandage with the last scrap of his mother’s quilt. Gerome presses a vial, no more than sugar and piss poor alcohol at him; he prefers an ale. It doesn’t matter. As his good hand cards through Gerome’s dirty hair, his stitches weaken at the gash in his side. Be still. There’s no one left to save.

“What are you talking about—

 _There is you._ A cloak of writhing scales howls in unintelligible speech, violent enough it hurts to hear. Brief cessation of wingbeats, a false quiet as smoke billows from no natural cause. Grima. The earth shakes beneath his feet and Gerome’s lashes catch like embers as the entire sky ignites.

 

And sweat chilled against his brow, Inigo doubled over, the sustained scream of those consumed by fire filtering out all coherency. On the edge of the cot Gerome sat by his side, anchoring, as the world spun around him with the wretched stench of smoke filling his lungs on his first proper breath. Gerome placed a tentative hand on the nape of his neck.

“Grima is far away and you are here, whole.” Repetition of nothing else save Gerome’s convictions brought Inigo to the present, his voice reassuring— though when Inigo peered up at him, his eyes were wide.

Inigo unfurled himself, fingertips clenching into his knees. He managed a smile, aiming for cavalier yet by Gerome’s studying expression, he saw him plain as a mug of water.

Gerome shifted closer, the cot lurching on its supports though he paid it no heed, “You don’t have to change on my account but you hold no obligation before me or anyone to bear a smile you don’t feel.” ~~~~

“You truly want to hear my complaints?”

He bit at his lip. “In another time we stayed behind, slain by Grima’s destruction,” he swore, “Naga’s teeth, whatever you say will not be complaints. I would hear them.”

Inigo considered his face, earnest in its appeal despite the mask before wrapping his arms round his torso. Tense in his embrace, Gerome made a shocked noise but doesn’t push him away. Inigo found weeks, months unable to recall when he last did so with any vehemence. So too left the petty victory at every word acknowledging his presence, some tally Inigo long since forgot. With his head tucked over his shoulder, Gerome pared him down. Not the threat of Grima which has been present all his life— making good on it is only an eventuality. In their proximity, Inigo can’t tell whose pulse fluttered against his skin. The line between wanting and having pivoted on a knife’s edge.

One arm responded in kind across Inigo’s shoulders, a comfort. But the weight of being responsible for anyone’s feelings mingled panic and wonder as one in his blood.

“So next I see you again you’ll be bare faced; everyone’s going to think you’re a new recruit.”

“…I could work on it with you, sometimes.”

Nervous, he pulled away. “Like hell you would.”

Gerome exhaled a short laugh. “Exactly. You’d steal it anyway.”

“‘Never touch a man’s mask’,” he pitched his voice, “I learnt my lesson the last time.”

“Of course,” his palm came to rest on Inigo’s forearm, thumb limning Minerva’s bite mark under his sleeve, “and I sound nothing like that.” Gerome withdrew his hand, voice fond, the same reflected in his expression.

Angling toward his face as a flower to sunlight, timidity halted Inigo’s movement. “Permit me something.”

“You have your way regardless.” Closing the distance by half to nothing, Gerome belied his sentiment.

When their lips met, he smiled into the curve of his mouth, surely Gerome could not fault him for that. Though Inigo expected hands tangled in his hair, the thrill was the same despite his restraint. In the wisp of air between them, Gerome entwined their hands. They smelt of herbal tonic. He’d forgotten they weren’t alone. Across the divider screen, Owain Brady and the others were a mesh of voices. Before his held affections set free, Gerome pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. Later, a promise. Later, Inigo left all his complaints in the seam of Gerome’s mouth.

 

 

Later afflicted Gerome in its inevitability, Spell thorough in its method and no kinder in its third form. He lay unresponsive and bleeding from the nose while mumbling in a dialect Inigo couldn’t understand. Every shudder served reminder Inigo cannot turn aside the bolts that fly for him in a battlefield endured alone. Once the bleeding ceased, each rise and fall of his chest was a miracle and an agony both. By his side as a decrepit bulwark, Inigo gave in to due vigilance, fingertips wrinkling in his excessive replacement of the compress against Gerome’s feverish brow. His leg jounced in restless energy.

It was a lonely corner, fabric walls swollen with apprehension, each of them cordoned off by dividers allowing a semblance of privacy. Kjelle and Yarne shared in looking after Laurent as Brady made his rounds. Owain’s prayers for Princess Lucina blended with Noire’s fervent pleas to Severa in twin voices of woe.

“Lean on m-me just a little—”

“Dear cousin we are a destined bloodline—”

Inaction never suited him. Clasping a hand that does not press back as the hours pass, Inigo talked. Memories he barely recalled from before, mercenary stories after, rejections throughout. In between he paused, waiting for each account to be the last, the one where Gerome interrupted with a grunted reply. His aching voice found no respite in drinking a ladleful of water— all of his entreaties remained unheard, absorbed into the harmony of fatigue and hopelessness surrounding the infirmary.

With a rustling of cloth, Gerome shifted in the cot, readjusting his mask.  Inigo was near to him at once, calling his name, syllables crackling. Gerome reacted with a nod so slight it served as marker of nothing.

“I should get Brady.” Inigo would’ve left him then if not for Gerome easing himself up. “Are you well?”

Gerome paused mid-nod, his eyes darting about, reading from an invisible page, the words stuck in his throat. He licked his lips. “I’m going to be sick.”

Inigo uttered an oath. To his relief Gerome waited, almost polite, hunkering over to retch into the bucket placed between his knees. He wiped at his mouth with Inigo’s proffered handkerchief. Exchanging a mash of salt and sage for the soiled vessel, Inigo set to cleaning it outside. Touched by the morning sun, the warmth of it was overshadowed by concern.

The others roused in their own time, Princess Lucina encircled by her family. Severa nestled between Noire and Brady, a heap of snotty hiccups and complaints. He hastened his steps to discover Gerome perched on the cot’s edge, contemplative.

“They’ve secured our future. And we garner none of it.” From this distance Gerome held a stubborn sheen in his eyes, chin tilted up in challenge. They were lined with unshed tears. “I caught a glimpse of my parents.”

“Ah, t-truly?” When Inigo slipped under, the ephemeral presence of his parents were a smear in his mind, suggestions of hair hoary at the temples and laugh lines.

The ash and smoke of their world dispelled in Gerome’s recollections. In it, he could hear the regard for his parents, likened to heroes. Exalt Lucina with Falchion ignited in its true purpose. Gerome hadn’t the words, hesitation apparent and Inigo could only hazard a guess through the apprehensive lump in his throat. Sunset of a day as yet unrealized, it all soothed an ache he cultivated unawares.

“And you, you refused to die,” Gerome patted his knee, thumb rounding gentle about the outer edge before retreating. In that moment, the gesture filled him with such a surge of affection it overwhelmed his wary nature of reciprocity. Gerome’s eyes crinkled beneath the mask as Inigo took up his nearest hand. “Nothing can kill you, can it?”


	8. Chapter 8

Mornings passing without incident drew a collective sigh of relief from their encampment. Laurent rationalized their parents intervening in any capacity with their future past counterparts affected them as well, memories of converging timelines that Cynthia openly complained of making her head hurt. Silently, Gerome agreed. Of course the origin of their affliction was meddling.

Hell, Laurent made interlopers of them all, proposing in the middle of the medical tent. Exalt Lucina’s smile was bright enough to stun Gerome in its genuineness. Rallying behind her countless times, to see happiness writ plainly across her features brought a smile to his own. _We’ve won the day twofold._

In the end it hadn’t mattered the cause only the effect— the Shepherds reunited in strength formidable with a renewed purpose to destroy the font of their troubles.

Risen trailed after them, determined to halt their campaign through sacred grounds and disclosed parentage, a shambling mass nothing compared to the Shepherds’ indomitable will. Not to say their tactician’s origins didn’t ricochet throughout the ranks. A weaker version of himself, had Gerome the power, would’ve deserted her. Still he took note of Robin’s résistance to fate and belief in bonds, altogether ashamed of how he dismissed her previously.

Regained in loyalty, they carried on under their leader’s orders. Composed. Surviving. All dreadful battles and bloody knuckles, soldiers come shields, ever forward.

Were it enough, to strive for what had once been unachievable, the end of limitless years of strife within reach. Hurtling toward a day of reckoning, Gerome faltered as the weeks passed, the urgency he understood muddled by an oft repeated lesson in his life: fate took its due. Their ranks thinned, the foot soldiers referring to themselves as arrow fodder. As Inigo’s smile frayed around the edges, the march extended into night with torchbearers lighting the path. Designs of bartering dance performance praise for kisses, conversations from within the confines of their tent, each stolen by exhaustion.

How had anyone else found time for courting when they were at war?

Moments together limited to patrolling the edge of camp— in stunted talks interrupted by every strange noise and touches marked by brevity— surrendered Gerome to a nascent truth. He faced it in half measures, a certain reluctance he couldn’t give name until one night they made camp. The lights of a village promised to reclaim their old routine for surely it held a small tavern. Gerome feared him asleep but Inigo shifted in his bedroll, teased him for his streak of truancy and was currently signaling to the barkeep for another tankard of mead.

The tavern was simple in décor. Knotty wooden chairs and tables of a stock its patrons complemented, their weary faces obvious fixtures at the bar. The empty section of floor for dancing Inigo eyed with the kind of resigned avoidance Minerva viewed an unattended cookpot. Gerome lacked the fortitude to ask him to dance, troupe playing something akin to a funeral dirge for all it appealed to him. The resulting whispers and attentions he would rather devote to Inigo, who set his drink down with a contented sigh.

“Robin’s been talking of promotion for a while. I’d started to get used to that awful armor too.” Inigo drummed his fingers against the bar in perfect rhythm to the music while in absent thought. “Can you imagine me a Bow Knight?” He mimed firing an arrow. “Your worst nightmare.” He meant it in jest yet he wasn’t too far off.

“I’d hate to incur friendly fire.” _May he never glean the truth_. “Like Brady.”

Inigo snorted. “I’d be magnificent. Cutting down and sniping Risen all upon a noble steed.”

Gerome’s squirming was involuntary. Yet Inigo took one look at his face and his simply fell. “She won’t draft me into it. I’d get lessons from Noire or something.” Inigo muttered something that sounded like _if I don’t get shot first_. “And anyway, Minerva won’t have to haul me around the battlefield.”

“It’s a bad match, Minerva doesn’t like horses.”

“Mm, if you say so,” Inigo froze, drink halfway to his lips. “Minerva seemed fine when I helped care for her. We were in the stables all the time and she—,” his eyes narrowed, askance and equally as mischievous. “I thought the issue was archery, but it’s more like you don’t like horses. Surely you’re not afraid?”

Gerome instinctively bristled, a tell Inigo latched onto immediately.

“You truly are? But Minerva is so…” Inigo faded away only to snicker. “Even Ricken’s pony?”

Fear, as it so often formed wasn’t rational. It took only an overactive imagination after a bedtime story, terror which mellowed to sheer aversion as an adult. He had to sell this. “I was mauled.”

Inigo nearly aspirated his mead, lost to gleeful abandon. “Horses don’t have claws!”

Every flustered protest brought fresh peals of laughter from his throat and Gerome warmed less from the alcohol, more from the company. Though he used solitude as an act of self-preservation, he preferred the sound of Inigo’s laughter to nights of migraines and regret. Even if it happened at his expense. Inigo stifled his giggles in the rim of his mug.

“You could conquer your fears of the equine kind as it were.” Gerome echoed the word _equine_ in confusion. “You aren’t the only one who talks to Laurent but I have my wits too. Besides, it would be a shame”—Inigo leaned closer, voice a low drawl—“all that time together in the stables you could show me how to ride.”

No ale Gerome encountered could slake this, yet tankard drained, his fingertips itched with the awareness of too many around to indulge any action coming to mind. “You’re drunk. Mead disagrees with you.”

“I’m perfectly agreeable.” His eyes followed the spreading flush trailing beneath his cravat. “Where does the rest of that shade go?” The salacious bend to his smile endured as he swayed and Gerome’s hands formed an invisible boundary lest Inigo tumble from his seat.

“You’ve obviously had enough.” To Inigo’s protests, mild compared to the hum of the barflies around them, Gerome swiped his tankard. Downing a swig for good measure, it’s still nothing to the burn settling elsewhere. “Later.”

“It always is with you.”

“I make good on my promises, do I not?”

“Th-that is, so far, yes.” Inigo ducked his head, skimming the bar top with a meandering hand. He rubbed at the back of his neck, a resurgence of shyness once left behind in mead. “Yes, I suppose you have.” Mumbled to the bar’s stained surface, it’s not until Gerome offered his silver to the barkeep for thin coppers in return that Inigo stopped intermittently touching his mouth. Whatever else he planned to say stretched into a yawn.

“We’ve an early march, come on.”

Closer to the desert, the wind was sweltering even at night, breeze Minerva conjured equally as balmy as they drifted back to camp. The heat of his cheek pressed against Gerome’s shoulder. Her landing jostled Inigo awake, soft confused ‘mwuh’ leaving his lips before Gerome lifted a hand from the ground.

Inigo ignored it, sliding from Minerva without a trace of his usual elegance. Gerome laughed in spite of himself with Inigo glaring up at him. Essentially leaning against each other in mutual inebriation, their shadows pulled tight across the sand as Minerva lumbered to the stables.

Once inside the tent Inigo stumbled in the dark, near braining himself on the wash basin’s edge in struggling to remove his boots. He simply relinquished to his care, though Gerome fumbled with the buckles; slow and methodical in pretending he often required total concentration for such an easy task. Whatever boldness a tavern brought out in Inigo was all but gone now and he stuttered his thanks.

“How will I manage once you’re sober? That’s not what I meant—” Inigo reached out for his silhouette, inhibiting him to an arms-length retreat. “Hey, I’m not teasing. You’re too kind to me, tonight was a comfort.” He would do it again. Hand dragging over the stubble on his cheek, perhaps Inigo could sense the blush rising to his face as Gerome imbibed the praise. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I rather like having them.”

“What secret?”

“That you make me happy, going out like this.”

“But I couldn’t possibly— there aren’t that many taverns.” He sniffed. “Unless the Grimleal have casks stashed away.”

“Doesn’t matter, I still liked it.” Breath ghosting over his cheek, he pressed a single kiss, dry and quick to the space below his eye.

He shivered in the face of his gratitude, in awe a moment like this could occur during a time of war no less. Keeping each other alive, hours in one another’s company, Inigo by his side. There was seldom anything Gerome opposed, for what would he not allow. As it was, recognizing this truth weighed heavy, unsure he could carry it alone. Wasted time spent attempting to lock the words between his teeth, a lie by omission couched in the juncture of Inigo’s throat.

Nights later with their bedrolls alongside each other, sleep claiming him as easily as Inigo had if not for the metal chain tugging at the fine hairs on Gerome’s nape vying for his attention. Gerome watched Inigo in shadows, playing with the wedding ring on its strand; his mother’s fingers were delicate despite the strength they imbued and Inigo idly spun the ring stuck midway on his pinky finger. When Gerome caught his hand he started, uttering an apology as his thumb brushed against his knuckles in a silent plea that Inigo obliged by entwining their fingers together. Inigo drew closer, head resting over the steady beat of what was already his.

 

 

What small mercies remaining in the world departed while Gerome considered his options. Grima could blight the horizon next sunrise. Naga could never reverse time for the sake of one man regardless. Maybes buffeted against his skull. His affections were insignificant against time, an unyielding foe.

But he squandered his second chances at every turn and in this he would leave no margin for error, sorting through his pack for a valuable memento. When he pulled the misericorde out, its rarity and weight perfectly balanced; he found the right angle. In the ways of gold, of gifts and extravagance, earned or no, he sought Gaius’ aid.

“This place is secluded enough,” Gaius reassured, “you can quit tailing me.”

The barracks were free from prying ears and eyes yet now irritation joined Gerome as he forsook his position from behind a stack of barrels. At any moment that could change.

“This is a negotiation.” Gerome offered the misericorde by its ornate hilt, mannerism as if doling out the death stroke himself, a warning, an entreaty for mercy.

Gaius whistled, low and appreciative at the Sigil of House Themis embossed on the sheath. “Well that came out of a noble treasury.” Gaius’ crooked smile was so full of pride, same as the first time Gerome outwitted Father at a game of shells. “Damn, what did future me teach you?”

“Lock picking, foreseeing a sleight of hand from several paces. Your penchant for oaths of the less noble persuasion. You’d know if you hadn’t left.” He’s a teenager again, wandering with a fancy dagger that’s his and not all the same. “You gave this to me. For my birthday.”

“I should’ve done better by you, yeah?” This Father encroached unheeding to slander, folding in his one bit of leverage to wrap Gerome in a sticky hug. “Yet no love for desserts then. Pity.” Clapping him hard on the back as he stepped away, Gaius left the stench of burnt sugar. “So what would you ask of me?”

“Show me how to use the foundry. The misericorde is yours.”

“I’ve always responded to bribery.” Gaius wet his bottom lip in thought, familiarity of the action near skewering Gerome with its resemblance to a man long dead yet right in front of him. “But keep it, we’re blood. My skills are yours.”

Gaius proved himself a patient teacher at the day’s end. Even with inferior beginnings, nothing would deter Gerome in his efforts. Sweat and ash clung to his face, his usual mask traded for a cloth one, the hearth’s flame impossible to withstand. Heated metal molded to his desires. A little humbled once his hands crafted something he took pride in, for once not alone when he succeeded.

 

◊◊◊ 

 

How curious, one army against a god. Stranger still, their auspicious odds. In a duel where etiquette upheld by Naga alone, her strength would transport them to Grima’s neck. The overfed lizard bided its time, meaning a repast of possessed followers before consuming the rest of the world. May hubris be a guillotine for Grima’s downfall, the Shepherds a steel blade. Gerome uttered the prayer once in a shallow breath. The sky hung overhead in the color of bruises, every shade reminiscent of internal organs, fell dragon the blotch of its epicenter. Below, the Shepherds prepared for battle in constant dim twilight.

Squires clattered behind knights in full armor, hauling their equipment. Readied in everything from leathers and regalia to burlap, horses nickered and whined. Distance was a haven for both Gerome and Minerva ignored them. Completely outfitted in heavy armor, Minerva nipped then lowed at him as she nudged at his pockets, in blessing or impatience. Perhaps both.

Waiting became his ruin. He tightened his vambraces as he hurried in search. The right moment left him a coward, truly there was no such thing. One last fight and the possibility of death never nullified. Purpose guided his steps, through mages and healers. The words outpaced Gerome nonetheless, eluded by each rise fall glimpse of Hero’s armor not his. _Where the seven hells had Inigo gone?_ Gerome caught Inigo’s voice, a spirited lilt on the desert wind.

“—sharpened, Father, may it be enough to last them the fight.” Despite his words, Gerome believed him alone, Inigo anchoring a number of swords against his hip while his free hand carved shapes through the air as he talked. As he relinquished the weapons, how Sir Kellam managed to find an edge of shadow cast by the bonfire avoiding discovery was a skill of its own, his thanks muffled in the snap of burning logs when he took his leave.

“Hey there, I hoped to see you.” Inigo fixed him with a genuine smile, the greed it reserved for him alone seized Gerome in its totality. Struck dumb, he stared until Inigo shifted, flitting a whetstone from hand to hand. “Must you stare so, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“I’ve something to tell you.” Now wasn’t the day for unspoken words. His hands wavered to his pocket. “Though I might as well walk into the maw of Grima for how well this is going.”

“Don’t wish for that.” Inigo cleared his throat, covering a dry laugh. “Ah, go on then. It can’t be all that bad.”

“Minerva would have, that is to say, I would—” Gerome dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. He breathed out in a heady gust. “The truth of it is, this is the last we support each other and if I fall he—”

“You won’t.” Inigo declared it without question, an absolute.

Clearly, Gerome was a fool to believe otherwise; in his foolishness, he found bravery. “May you accept this anyway.” Gerome withdrew the hand-sewn pouch, tipping its contents into his unsteady glove. The Shepherds reached a summit of organized chaos— the call to arms not long now— yet when Inigo stepped closer, all dulled to his senses save him.

Inigo cupped his glove within his own, angling them toward the firelight. Heavy for its size, Minerva’s tooth nestled in his palm, fang whittled to a cylinder overlaid by a cluster of golden roses, the closest Gerome came to a family insignia. “This is”—his fingertip traced the thin whorls etched into the ivory, a mimicry of Rosanne’s hills—“beautiful. But you would gift this,” Inigo regarded him now, confusion writ upon his features. “To me?”

“More than a gift. My favor.” Held tight, Gerome’s arm became an underpinning for Inigo, nearer so Gerome’s knuckles brushed against the front of his plate armor. “Which you have.”

Inigo angled his face away, the glint of fresh tears poorly concealed. “I can scarcely believe—”

War horns resounded throughout camp. Ill-timed, Inigo swore in a rush, scrubbing at his eyes. “I regret I’ve nothing to give you in return, not like this.” _You are enough._

They fell into rank, Inigo tying the fine silken cord round his arm, charm for all to witness. Whatever fate had in store for Gerome, he would meet it unflinching.

 

 

For a god, Grima fell as a man— howling of great wrongs, overtaken by shuddering death knells and undignified in succumbing to fate. Willpower could not resist the body. Though their liege weakened, Risen crossed weapons, teeth, and claws; bared in a mindless and unrelenting wave overtaking any ground lost. Grima’s hide became a churning sea, knocking several knights from their mounts. Gerome deflected a blow meant for someone he never met.

As a squire, he swore an oath to Naga. Of loyalty, justice and sacrifice. Liberty was a farce, people shorn of choice except fear and desolation. Sacrifice demanded nothing of the corrupt. Qualities absent in himself, a knight forsaking people in hopes of saving them obliquely. Now he doled out revenge thrice-fold, for those who may never exist in this realm again.

Joining the Shepherds was a dream for a boy who still had faith in heroes. In his parents. His mother ever faithful to the ruler of a fallen dukedom, for its people she loved. His father, who bore on his skin the cost of saving a stranger for his integrity. To his vows he ascribed a new ideal.

He fought protecting what was precious, for a family he lost only to encounter again. For his begrudging resistance, it was Robin who showed him another way. Her strategy kept them alive, forged something greater than themselves. Machinations over a war table distilled atop a great writhing monster. Love was what doomed and saved them all, for Robin loved them more than herself. A single cut to slay a god.

Grima’s vessel sank to its knees, mouth spitting poisonous words devoid of sound. In no grand flourish, Robin slashed with straightforward accuracy, the manner in which she did everything, beheading Grima. Higher honor than the wyrm deserved. Yet righteousness damned Robin, as one with the fell dragon wasting away to a fog.

Prince Chrom raced to her fading figure, Falchion a glowing blur striking down Risen in his path. Wild with grief, he stabbed at the scales beneath them to no avail. An anguished cry emanated from him like a wounded animal as he prostrated himself before the nothingness Robin once occupied. That she could lose her life in the same fashion as their enemy was a cruelty beyond measure. Violet erupted over the battlefield as Risen, powerless without Grima, met the afterlife. Exalt Lucina and Morgan rallied to their father and Gerome could only turn his head away from their mourning to join them.

And like this, Grima’s reign of devastation ended, a battle wherein only one name expunged from the roster.


	9. Chapter 9

Naga delivered them under the shadow of a volcano, its fire dimming while the Shepherds built their own. Flames strained heavenward as kegs were brought out to loosen aching limbs and hearts. A numb sorrow blanketed camp, pall wreathed about the Exalted line with Prince Chrom at its center, silver tankard nursed in despondency before he stood.

“It has been an honor to fight alongside those of such valor. Our cause made us one, may We remember what was accomplished with your help. Together. We would ask once more for your faith. So celebrate on this night her sacrifice.” His voice trembled prior to regaining its strength, firelight transforming a smile there and gone into a grimace, ugly in the shadows playing across his face. “Slim chances were her specialty. She will not remain a revenant for long and will return to a world of peacetime.”

While they gave themselves over to muted celebration, Prince Chrom retired to his tent. In Robin’s choice for certain victory, one hundred or a thousand years could pass ensuring none plagued by the fell dragon’s wrath. Though she left behind a great deal of pain, heavy crash muffled by fine canvas and a burgeoning round of song.

Gerome’s skin prickled as the verses continued with Brady’s violin an accompaniment to the mournful ballad. Comrades and friends lent their voices. He couldn’t bear another moment, suffocating much in the way Inigo was center to a throng of grateful soldiers, further away from sobriety in their thanks.

Careful to avoid his line of sight, Gerome slipped away to certain solace in dust and grit, the ever-present scent of various mounts outweighed by Minerva; her neck stretched over the stable door, patient in waiting for his hand. Once they steadied, he collected himself enough to scratch beneath her snout after he climbed into the stall.

He sank to the earth, dull ache of a pommel hit pulling at his ribs while Minerva’s head draped as a living blanket across his knees. Robin so well-loved among them it became a taunt. Yet another he couldn’t save. So he spoke of her, echoing quiet shames. Minerva remained, unjudging, as he swiped at his damp cheeks before replacing the mask. Whether minor or the deepest confines of his heart, Minerva kept his secrets safe. “You’ve always been my dearest friend.” Gerome ran his hand along a patch of silver-light scars on her flank. No harm would come to her evermore, he guaranteed of her loyalty a haven. “I can honor my promise to you.” Crude meals no longer consisting of feed and the spare apple or two, fields green and wide. A family of her own, should she wish it. Comfortable with his armor molding him attentive, he settled with Minerva. She shifted at approaching footsteps, mild snort ruffling Inigo’s hair as he slid next to him, armor scraping wood.

“They’ve gone from singing to carousing while praising Robin’s exploits. I think they’re lying, surely one person couldn’t have really done that much?” Inigo’s posture slackened against him, grin a little brighter than the purpling bruise eclipsing his eye. “Popularity must be a curse, at least the ale is making for interesting stories, each one trying to outdo the last.”

“And yet you’ve left them for my poor company.” Gerome mollified his tone at Inigo’s well-worn sigh. “I don’t wish to deprive you.”

“Entertaining as it may be, it’s my will to miss nothing. You tend to make your exits permanent.” Closer still, Inigo coiled his fingertips in the gaps of his pauldron, absolving any misunderstanding. “Besides, I’d like to hear your memories of Robin.”

“What is there to tell? I was not pleased she forced me to you. And I let her know it.”

“I’m sure you were incredibly charming. Gods, but I invited her to tea thrice.” Facets of Inigo’s expression dimmed, brows knit together. “Perhaps she paired us because we vexed her.”

Gerome searched for an answer in the dark eaves, what time could prove thankful. Robin epitomized innate calculation, her stratagem resembled any other weapon handled with aplomb. At least it stopped short of actual force to render her methods successful.

“Oh, there’s the smile I love. I’d thought it banished forever.” Inigo’s choice of words further brightened his expression.

“If it were not for vengeance, her cunning and counsel… how wretched I am to be happy on a day like this.”

Holding his miseries much the same, Inigo nodded in agreement, contemplation lacing his tone. “If Robin saw us now, our first night of peace shared alone in the stables, not quite alone.” Minerva shook her wings at his acknowledgment. “Grima’s dead. Everything is different. Yet the same. Owain still tells stories most cannot follow.” Drawn smile indistinct, Inigo’s parted lips hovered between a fragmented whisper or curse. “Please don’t find me false if I hold you to your word. But Robin is dead, I’ll never get a smile from her again.” Slump of his shoulders betraying his composure, Inigo drew within himself.

For Gerome, even when Inigo returned to him with dry eyes and determination to enjoy the dregs of celebration with the rest of camp, those sobs pierced his heart. Still Inigo swayed with them in a stately pavane while Gerome’s grief crept alongside, bleeding into notes he barely heard.

 

◊◊◊ 

 

Peace was relative to the villages that still called for aid after Grima’s carcass became an irregularity in the unbroken horizon. The Shepherd’s allies departed for their respective homelands in an effort to rebuild. This world would always sustain its own troubles. Brigands flourished akin to reviving flora, pillaging whatever they desired instead of Risen. Though the heat of the desert winds long since departed, its wearying energy followed even as Ylisstol beckoned home. The capital welcomed the Shepherds’ arrival with trepidation, their queen absent from view as they walked its streets. His steps marked by grief and hope, Lucina would give anything to see her father smile.

Happiness tempered by loss, she married in a quiet almost somber affair, as lavish as secrecy could afford. Gerome watched from over the rim of his drink as Laurent danced with their Exalt, stiff and formal.

Warm as the sight was, he hadn’t done enough for her in his duty as a knight. What had his loyalty afforded her— a void where someone she could still call mother resided. Premier in his thoughts every morning, how failure carved out a swath greater than fate. Gerome sought a routine within the castle walls, patrolling the outskirts upon Minerva in vain to repay a debt, walks where the heat of Inigo’s hand lingered in the eve of their days. Conversations over tea, Inigo convincing him their Exalt was fine, some belated honeymoon, surely, after her disappearance. Gerome recalled Laurent adjusting his glasses before accepting his wishes for a happy life together. Time brought Gerome clarity, a moment diverted from saying goodbye, the _take care of yourself_ rang of finality in hindsight. But Inigo could quell his anxieties through conviction alone, so he chose to believe him. Gerome cleared his throat, preferring to speak of other things. “No word from Themis?”

Inigo paused in devouring the lemon cake he steadfastly ordered though he bemoaned its dry texture each time. “Brady might be refusing to write me back out of stubbornness, what if Lady Maribelle discovered he could? All it’d take is a word and months from now he’s a member of court.” Nothing good would come of that for anyone.

“However, I’ve heard a fair share of talk from Valm.” Gerome’s heart plummeted, response weak to his own ears as Inigo went on. “And Lady Cherche writes very compelling letters. As much as I’m loathe to play messenger, I told her what I believed true.” He tilted the folded parchment toward him. “Her response came with one for you alone.”

“You could have saved yourself the trouble.” The letter weighed nothing and he tucked it into his pocket without a second glance at his name flowing across its surface. Beneath the mask, his brows pinched together in the nexus of an expanding headache. “You both should have, she’s not my mother.”

“From the very start, she wanted to write to you. Caring for your welfare, is that so worthless?” Inigo studied his countenance before drinking the last of his own tea. “I could no more ignore her than my own mother.”

In a voice usually kept like a secret, tent an alcove over their heads, Inigo spoke of his dancing with Olivia. Awkward, trying, a little embarrassing. Gerome would not trade his happiness for anything, for a grin not thrown across his lips but carried true in his voice. At present Inigo spent afternoons in her company. He seemed better for it. Gerome  marveled at Inigo’s strength; he’d always been stronger than him.

When he last saw Mother he begrudgingly accepted a kiss on the forehead, her smile oddly serene before alighting upon Minerva never to return. At the end of Grima’s defeat, Cherche’s skirts swirled about her ankles as Gaius spun her round the bonfire. He tried in small bouts but in spite of it all he would be taken away by himself in the coming years.

“If you are troubled so, we could open it together, hold your hand as it were.” Inigo’s foot nudged his own beneath the table, breaking his contemplations. “Something like that.”

“Pardon me, I have to prepare for an early morning.” He bid him well, concern etched on Inigo’s face echoing in the clicking lock of his quarters. He stowed the letter away with the rest of his keepsakes, wax seal unbroken.

But in the night all its torments seduced him, illusions behind his eyelids melding into monsters. Dust motes floated overhead in the weak light of a fire that cast aside its warmth while he padded over to a wooden chest. Kneeling with the cool stone floor seeping into his bones, the letter beckoned to him as it had for hours now in his delay of the inevitable.

It was only to calm his mind, dagger severing wax from parchment. The words lain in shallow relief swam before his eyes so was he struck by the familiarity of her script. Neat and tidy, her pleasantries brief though no less sincere in wishes of good health. It soothed him then, their similar deftness in small talk. She wrote of their arduous journey, the further work necessary in rebuilding Rosanne to its former glory. How relieved she was arriving at Virion’s manor before His Grace to make the transition easier, the people needed a steady hand. For a brief moment he could recall her voice, older and yet warm in its determination:

As always, my pride in you is immeasurable and, should you need it, be you weary or for want of a good meal after your travels, I offer them gladly from our hearth. For this letter to find you at all Inigo must be with you and my heart is glad for it. Doubly so that you intend to settle near enough, Gaius has culled a mass of supplies that may be of use. Regardless we offer aid in whatever form you may need. If you reply to me from Wyvern Valley I shall fly to you both at once— my darling Minerva misses you and her older playmate quite terribly!

Signed _all my love_ under which there were a few scratches in the paper surface, doubtless Minerva’s doing, Gerome reread the letter several times, each line losing greater focus. Though it mattered not what the contents of the letter might hold, the steadying of his heartbeat proved otherwise. It was relief and burden to have closure, family still intact. Initial worries slaked by her words they set once more a dryness to his throat at their suggestion.

Having never breathed a word about his plans, Gerome truly managed to lose not only Minerva’s faith but now his parents as well. Disappointing those he cared for most, he recalled Inigo’s earlier words, the weight of belief burying him. Quill scratching over fine parchment taken from the royal library, there was nothing to be said save the truth, how he relentlessly searched for Robin, his negligence, if Inigo—

Hand hovering over the inkwell, he froze. Had Inigo expressed interest in coming with him, or was she assuming he was mid-route? With immediate lucidity he hoped it were the former. Neglected in his grief, Gerome returned to that sanctuary escaping his grasp once it was closest. The war was over. And this time, he dreamt in a greater capacity than the night of Cynthia’s wedding ages ago with Inigo by his side.

Gerome couldn’t imagine the recent months without him, much less those future. Nor what once prompted ambivalence, the flare of indignation often joined with their early encounters relegated to the past, where commitment seemed to guarantee little else in surviving the week. Quelled by time and exposure, now all his flesh and blood beat here, in a spare room of the barracks by a truth simple in its design. Never part of his plans, not when marriage was for someone else, not a man whose indulgences coveted solitude. Always would, in a way. Stone by stone, Inigo’s love and friendship carved a fixture whereupon Gerome situated one bottle of wine evenly split, shared table laden with local bounty granted in passing years where he dwelled on a merged future, slow and unshakable in its permanence.

 

 

 

Robin could have been standing in a meadow, burgundy hair shining in the early morning sun and gone wholly unnoticed by Gerome, whose thoughts tumbled with grand gestures as he circled the edge of Ylisstol. Storing Minerva’s tack, perusing the market for viable goldsmiths; checking on Minerva twice more. Only strains of a violin stole him from his musings when he strolled the castle courtyard walkway.

Across cobbled paths, a small crowd gathered around the performance below. With passersby neglecting their duties in music, Brady commanded an air of joy. Yet Gerome’s gaze drew to Inigo as ever. Glint of his favor a gold and ivory tendril in the light, the air shimmered in each elegant line of his body. While his hips held none of the sensuality afforded those routines in moonlight with an audience of one, Inigo conveyed exuberance, sure-footed in every movement as if those bystanders were immaterial. Gerome’s spark of panic drowned in leagues of pride, outmatched only by their applause.

In the space between a footfall he regarded Inigo, the joy of his face. Here, Gerome waited beneath the shadowed arches as Inigo bent in a deep bow. A group of scullery maids, with the fervor Gerome once recalled from a tavern approached and Brady jostled Inigo’s shoulders after they departed.

“The rest of Ylisse has better taste, don’t let it get to your head.”

Words twisting in his mind, Gerome scattered them to the temperate breeze. Contrary to his own ideas, Ylisse held no claim upon Inigo. For all he considered Inigo his, a pang of fear racked him until Inigo’s full and bright laughter brought him back. “But I’m glad you’ve been understanding of my eagerness.”

“I’d hafta be dense not to, how Ylisstol ain’t having an ink shortage is what I don’t understand. The amount of grief you stirred up, Ma was ready to throw a reception—”

“While I’m flattered, honest—”

“—’til she found out it was you, what did I just say, would you shut up a second? I can’t believe I’m willingly gonna listen to this for months.” Brady waved his violin bow in warning, softness to his scowl once he took notice of Gerome’s presence. “I’m looking for better company, good luck.” Gerome managed a polite nod in return before making a conversation between them alone, noticing the flit of alarm evident on Inigo’s face which in turn left him scraped raw.

“Months?” One word so brittle, like the cracked skin shed by Minerva in the turning seasons. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, I was going to, I should have…” Small and leaden, Inigo’s voice trailed to nothing while he patently avoided his scrutiny, toeing at the ragged grass struggling between stones until time ground to a halt, stitching into place the smallness of his influence.

“When were you going to tell me? I wasn’t enough for you.” It really was too much to ask if ire bled into his tone and Inigo’s objections fell on dormant ears. “Why dance for me then, if I am the problem?”

Above, the sentry on the battlements changed and Inigo cast his kohl-rimmed gaze to the exchange.

“Your eyes were never a waste,” he demurred, damnably false smile aimed at Gerome's now sweating and sour face. It pacified not the basest part of him even as Inigo had the decency to mumble. “Let me at least explain.”

Faltering in the taut draw between his shoulders, Gerome’s patience cannot hold, drained of its anchor. “I’d not known you to keep secrets, not from me. Never this well. Never sparing a thought for planning to leave when you would change everything I’d ever—” Snappish and reeling, Gerome crafted every shored kindness to bitter poison. “Even an enemy committed in facing me, but you break your word, our friendship. This is the most selfish thing you’ve done. You’re no better than the Exalt who abandoned us.” A hoarse whisper then, passing over Inigo’s shuttered face framed by the stricken downturn of his mouth. “What love did you hold for me?”

It was as if he stole all warmth from Inigo’s complexion, a retreat of seconds.

“All of it.” And all of him, vehement with the fire Gerome encountered obliquely on a battlefield, Inigo wielded against him at close range. “I am not your friend. Your favor attests to that or have you interest in a duel? Only then could I willingly be parted.”

Gerome recoiled, fingers numb at the idea of razing its home in his decorative belt as Inigo’s attentions darted to the ramparts again.

“There’s certainly the audience for it. Though I’m sure the guards would love more the impression their king has folded to despair,” Inigo said, voice lower than before. “Are you quite finished, it’s best we speak elsewhere.”

Inhaling so sharply it burned, Gerome followed the sheer fabric trailing after Inigo into castle halls proper, carpets muffling his heavy steps. The sweat-sheen of Inigo’s back branded an afterimage against his eyelids. Flaring like any endured wound was a pain neither vulnerary nor healer could soothe. He matched pace by his side, if he had any right.

“I fought and covered you in turn for this treachery.”

“Did I not do the same, shielding you for a life you’ve embraced so fully? Better than me, these days.” Inigo crossed his arms, warding effect of the gesture lost in its pathetic attempt at hugging himself. “But I wanted, had to. I wish you to be happy, more than anything.”

“Is this my penance?” Stock still in the corridor, Gerome held shadows as his only comfort. “I assure you, I’m not.”  
“If only my will could make it so. Inaction would treat me the same for all my silent oaths.”

“Made to Brady?” His name transformed into an epithet on his tongue. “You would exclude me now?”

“In truth I hoped and believed you would escape to Rosanne first. I was mistaken, then, on your intentions and if _this_ ”—he gestured to encompass the lit sconces and statuettes—“is what you’ve chosen I’m sure Cherche will understand.” Inigo latched the door, Gerome brushing past him into the room. Neater than Inigo ever kept anything, his effects were bundled in a heap against the far wall.

“You had no right to tell her anything, we were a team. And now the war is over, I know nothing but this.” Everything he’d done was a fool’s errand. Tethered to Inigo’s tears and at the edge of a bonfire he never truly left, Gerome consumed himself with righting an injustice to no avail. So unlike him, Inigo would appoint his destiny on his own terms. The reality of it heaved a weary unbidden sigh from his lips. “Yet you intend to find out.”

“We’ve met peace, fought under the Ylissean banner, what more remains for us here? How can you stand it? Every day, every patrol you take I beg Naga release you from this obsession.” Inigo hastened to him unbowed, lower lip worried between his teeth before he spoke again. “But if it is what you’ve sworn… I’ve misjudged entirely. Perhaps to you I overstep yet I cannot regret every letter I’ve sent to Cherche, who was kind to me, when she had no need to be.” For his hesitation the steady timbre of his voice threatened to give completely. “What happened to ‘ _the world’s affairs are not our own_ ’, love? I thought I knew your heart.”

“You did.” Words and ideals from an age ago given sepulture under the morass of time, companionship. “You do.” Gerome bracketed Inigo within his reach, enfolded into a space carved for him alone. “I am at your mercy in everything. Now to your wanderlust. You have ruined me.”

“I never want to bring you pain.” Caught between a hiccup and sigh, his gaze tunneled into the middle distance. “Mother asked me to join her caravan. If I could have some small part in easing the troubles of this world in what way I can… We could return to Ylisstol often, she would understand.” He faltered, burying his face in the curve of his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I would not mean to hinder you.”

“Nor I you.” That was the crux of it then. What he proposed, for what he cannot propose and again sincerity moved his tongue despite it. “As a knight, I honor my word but for you I would defer. You are my prince.”

“Stop, don’t speak like that.” The tilt of his chin failed to conceal a grey stained tear as it sluiced down his cheek. Flush, because Gerome pressed a chaste kiss to its heat though Inigo brushed him away. “I’m hardly so deserving or worthy of such a title.”

“I meant it.”

“I know you did.” Voice heavy with unshed tears, his features crumpled in earnest before he turned away in an excuse to blot at his makeup. While Inigo laved his hands and face at the basin, Gerome remained entranced by the fine movements of his shoulders until those eyes, familiar once more, found his own, kept and held in the reflection of the looking glass.

Clear in their intent, nothing less could move him so, and facing one another, Inigo’s thumb ran gentle about his wrist to form a damp circlet as worthy as any. Captivated by their embrace, the curve of Inigo’s lips dragged against the pulse point of his neck, and broader still was the grin as fingertips graced the skin-warm metal of his mask.

As he withdrew the mask from his face, Gerome honored what was between them, fealty with a kiss of shy reverence to his open palm, a hand marred with scars of kindness and strength for a pledge nonetheless. Thrill and joy mingled in tandem, curling at the back of his neck, finding purchase at his waist. Twice more he leant in, the kind of kiss meant for making and unmaking him in equal measure. A third for Inigo to breathe his name, such yearning in it that for all his years was as if he’d never heard it before.

 

 

 

Gerome found himself staring, committing to memory Inigo’s face. The parted bow of his mouth, the beauty mark dotting his chin. There were many mornings ahead without the shadows of his lashes fanning over the curve of his cheek after all. Better to gain his fill while he could.

Allure of those morose thoughts dulled as Inigo squinted with pillow creases lining his face, irrepressible groan half-muffled into its’ surface. “It’s not fair if you take advantage of me to stare when I can’t get properly embarrassed by it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, ruffling his already terrible bedhead in the process.

Vexed at being caught, Gerome displayed his back to him. A much less pleasing view honestly. Inigo, inclined to a game of guessing scars in instant boredom, peppered kisses to the freckled slope of his shoulder. “Help me if this is what you grant when idle for long.” It was an oddly familiar gesture, like something on the cusp of waking and slumber. “Why do you always do that?”

“I promised to protect you and I have.” Inigo’s hand ghosted over his side to rest on his hip, safe weight of it one more guarantee no harm would befall him.

“I don’t need any protecting.”

Mere petulance, Inigo hummed in a way that defied listening, soft hair brushing his shoulder blades. “You’re here, that’s all that matters. So I have won.” At least he cannot glimpse the color rising to his face, rosy and creeping toward his neck, where the remnant of a sigh passed. “It’s a long time, not to see you.”

Terrible reality crushed the ebullience of the morning for all Gerome tried to push it away. In spite of his heart’s descent, Gerome covered Inigo’s hand with his own in mutual comfort to face him. “As if you would bear all the missing and absence by yourself?”

“Of course, it’s what we shall share in together.” Inigo confessed, averting his eyes in favor for considering their clasped hands. “I would write to you, the lodestar of my life.” The solemnity of his words were vaguely familiar, compounding the wrinkle between Gerome’s furrowed brow as the gleeful edge to Inigo’s expression broadened. Until its source dawned on him.

“Never mention him in our bed again.” He sized him up like they were opponents in the training yard as Inigo cheekily supplied it was technically his bed, thin blanket a kingdom Gerome threatened to abdicate. “If you mean to forge all your flattery, should I expect an incomprehensible tome at my doorstep in time?” He tried maintaining a put upon scowl while Inigo capitulated to sincere laughter, the sound free to nestle against the hollow of his throat amid Gerome’s waning resolve.

Despite his jape, dread ill-met him, choking his mirth to a halfhearted smile. Misfortune, then, for Inigo to notice and quiet with an inquisitive tilt of his head, asking after him. In lieu of an answer, Gerome extricated from where they were half-tangled in each other again to sit up, halted only by his caught wrist.

“Tell me.” A command contradicted by fingers carding gently through the hair at his nape, which Gerome leaned into. Loss hurt no less with warning it seemed. Already the ghost of his touch roiled sour, regretful, for the finger that remained without a ring.

“I have to take care of Minerva.” He would never trust those fearful stable hands. Nor how easily he succumbed to abandonment, however steady the weight of Inigo’s palm. “She’ll want to stretch her wings before we leave.”

“Try not to be so on edge in searching for Robin. Maybe, maybe you would be better off if—”

“Needs must, Inigo.” Gerome amended before he could interject. “I’ll be quick and we could have lunch together.”

Gerome turned to meet him fully, Inigo beside him with an inscrutable look in his eyes there and gone swift enough he questioned his own. “O-of course, then go. Look after her.” Inigo could hold him with a glance and though sorely tempted to stay, he did so after collecting his things for an exit where he could not bear a farewell before its time.

 

◊◊◊

 

He didn’t say goodbye. But neither could Inigo bring himself to call out after him. Not then, when the space Gerome once occupied in his bed cooled, nor when departing on another fruitless vigil for their missing tactician. And later still when he returned, Inigo noted his distracted mien, mask covering nothing, stuttered laughter a beat behind the bard’s story, his appearance schooled back into false placidity.

Attempting to broach the subject left his own jaw clenched, biting at the inside of his cheek as he did now, walking from their tavern of choice. Well, his choice, for the host let them be and one last afternoon together over broken bread and ale suited them fine. His abortive efforts at prying notwithstanding, Inigo made himself the picture of nonchalance with his fingers locked behind his head. Gerome would speak of it on his own time. Again the pressing notion to ask him along loomed all-encompassing. Not in the fabricated closeness via proxy of his favor attached to his costume during practice, but watching him perform, awash in whatever heady praise or jeer the crowd offered him Gerome could surpass or temper. Against the cloying press of strangers. Miserable in close quarters. Living out of a kit. A ration against taking his hand as he pleased.

_I don’t wish to become your happiness._

“Inigo–”

_Just stay happy._

Let the token of affection be enough, from his hips a reminder for courage in confronting that last personal battle with shyness. Failing his oath, Inigo would shield him from the withering bloom of his desires and relinquish him to Ylisse, Rosanne, or wherever Gerome was led, Naga—

“Wait here.” Gerome’s firm grip jostled him from his thoughts. “I have something to— just wait here.”

Striding along the cobbled path, Gerome had enough pride to outmatch a chevalier in the set of his shoulders alone. In short order, heads angled for a better look; an echo of a bygone competition transformed jealousy into acknowledgement, self-satisfaction prevailing when Gerome disappeared into an entrance. Preoccupied with an errand and still that singular warmth never abated from beneath Inigo’s ribs.

Breeze heated from a blacksmith’s nearby forge, Inigo ran a hand through his hair only for it to flop back into place. Tender smile for no one at all, he tapped a rhythm against the stone wall. He leant against it, shaded and no longer baking in the sun, another fixture of the scenery while mulling over his dance notes, making mental modifications with every turn of the page. Absorbed, he started at the sharp tug to his tunic.

“Do you have any gold, Sir?” Only knee high, her voice wavered, as if she dare not hope.

“Hm, I don’t know, my Lady.” As he knelt to reach her height, she giggled at the title, the youth of her face stained, streaked with dirt. _Damn this impassioned heart._ “I could spare a few coppers.” Her face brightened, beaming at him. Good deeds were their own form of currency; his wallet no lighter for it. Pretending ignorance at silver mixed in, he sifted the handful of copper into her cupped palms before she ran off, a grateful thank you accompanying feet slapping against the stones.

“I see you made a friend.”

Inigo spun on his heel at Gerome’s voice, studying his profile as it flickered towards her path of departure. “Do you ever want one?”

“I already have you.”

An expert at dodging questions, that feigned confusion wouldn’t work on him. “I meant a kid.”

“I’ve never… I can’t say that I have thought about it.” Settling his weight against him in the appearance of a drunk, Gerome draped an arm over his shoulders, corner of his mouth lifted in that uneven way. “Inform me if you find a masked smiling baby from the future.”

“Don’t be an ass.” Tone light, Inigo responded in kind, arm around his waist. “But you’re so caring with Minerva.”

“Wyverns are different from people.” He blushed as Inigo smoothed circles against his side, hidden under the hem of his cape. “You’re enough trouble.”

With a stifled snort Inigo drew away, Gerome following suit a moment later. The din of the street surrounded them in chatters and shouts. Ordinary merchants, everyday folk. Nary a mystical or legendary item to their wares yet the plainness of it all charmed. The indistinct haze of alcohol long since tapered; security and comfort found in the inherent noise of peace. Private conversation rambled to nothing of import, easy to revel in the company kept until Inigo asked where he’d gone. Evasive in reply, he let it be.

However his impending venture blame in part, at present Gerome scanned the banners overhead like they were of some great interest. He lingered, visibly pondering a private conundrum. “There’s a place I found while scouting, somewhere I’d like to take you, if you’d allow it.”

In easy greetings with the standing guard, ascending the winding steps to the castle proper and outside the stables, Gerome bid him follow. A harsh and familiar screech echoed from inside, her stall pristine. All soothing words, Gerome methodically outfitted her, reins trailing the ground. Inigo perched on the half-door adjacent, mercifully empty of its’ Pegasus tenant. Their wingspan was deceptively wide. Cynthia teased they could sense the pure of heart.

“I suppose I should have known we’d need Minerva for this— the only way to travel.” Inigo glanced over his shoulder at Gerome’s retreating form and slid into the stall, winding the reins so he and Minerva were eye-to-eye. “You always have but take care of him in my stead.” Releasing her, Minerva cooed at his whisper, glob of dampness a shade too warm trailing from her open maw along his back. He accepted it for agreement and subtly took to swiping at the stain from his post as Gerome returned with the saddle against his hip.

They rose into the air with nothing to evade and Inigo swallowed down the strange nostalgia striking him. Bolstered by a lack of armor he banished the visceral link to arrows, panic, and blood. For the first and last time, no war bound them together this way. The sword callus on his palm coursed over the soft fabric of Gerome’s shirt. High above Ylisstol now, the market squares were in miniature. Possibly from below, people spooked at a great smudge of greenish black against cerulean sky. Inigo remarked as much, shake of humor felt more than heard against his chest, Gerome’s leather riding gloves with that same gentleness covering his hand. Crenellations gave way to thatched rooves, cobblestones to the mud and dirt tracks of rural life. Quiet enveloped them, simply closing his eyes to the wind whipping through his hair as he plastered against Gerome’s back, who offered little complaint.

Minerva landed upon a hill with a churning of grass beneath her talons. Overlooking expansive fields sporadically fallow and bountiful, Ylisstol Castle a stony anthill among lush viridian. Ears formerly ringing from Minerva’s shrieks, the faint rush of water from a distant mill became constant lullaby. Once she settled, a flock of birds chirped from the thicket of trees behind them. Here, the air wafted with florals, their source dotting the ground in dappled stars. Delighted by their picturesque landscape, Inigo plucked one, tucking the flower behind Gerome’s ear.

Glad it was to his liking, Gerome sank into the ankle high grass, watching clouds medley into pastels with the sun’s descent. Inigo sprawled beside him, head cushioned by Gerome’s thighs, whose mask slipped into his pocket accompanied by a soft clink.

“There’s something I would ask of you.” Gerome carried a hint of trepidation. At it, Inigo sat up with interest.

“Anything, what is it?”

“You were always my support. But I never—” Seized by a veil of silence, he kneaded tiny loops absently over Inigo’s hand at his knee. He cleared his throat, tried again. “My intentions for you, with you…”

“Come now.” Smile affixed, he attempted to smooth the furrowed brow highlighted by golden hour light with the pad of his thumb. “For you alone could I have such patience.”

“Patience… I should heed your example.” In contrast to the tight set of his jaw, a serenity settled within Gerome, a stillness. “I intend to journey to Rosanne. Wyvern Valley is where Minerva belongs.”

Mouth agape, every gold ingot Inigo would have traded for those words remained on his person. “You mean it?” Disbelief thrummed through him, certain he would utter protest. He threw both arms about his neck while Gerome nodded against his shoulder, clutching him in an embrace returned _. Where you belong_. However distance became another foe to their meetings and his gut twisted at the prospect, he let go with his heart no less full. “Sorry, but what was your question?”

“Just this once, for I fear you may not wish to, with how you’ll spend your days—” He breathed out, fiddling with the gloves by his side, at a loss for words while collecting himself mid Inigo’s endeared gaze. “Will you dance with me?”

Expunging his fond smile to tarry in the moment, three heartbeats passed before he managed to reach out; Gerome ever the gentleman when his mouth brushed the top of his knuckles.

How unexpected, Gerome led him into a waltz, rigid as ever beneath his palm. Last Inigo showed him this dance, frost crackled beneath their boots. Trust him for words left unspoken, unnecessary, the little wrinkle in fine showing on his forehead when he concentrated. Chill of a different sort traversed Inigo's spine, settled at the warmth of Gerome’s hand on the small of his back. Breath to breath in a cadence which thawed his tongue.

“Someone must have taught you, who could that be?”

“A mouthy if not fine fellow.” One-two-three. Eyes which paled the surrounding greenery focused solely on him. “Hunts for compliments.”

“Surely you’ve practiced, to leave my feet unscathed.” Inigo rejoined in parting, sway an enchantment condensed to their bare palms. “I never knew you cared for my lessons, Sir.”

“I claim nothing, only to watch you, intently.”

“Creepy, imagine without an invite you’d take to slinking about corners.”

“Beg pardon?” Despite the mock bluster and affront, Gerome slowed their steps, for him near languid in posture, his ardor plain. Hand in hand and in equal tenderness, Inigo sang a gentle tune to their rhythm. Spiced cologne underneath the deep soot-spark notes of wyvern skin laid Gerome’s idle affection to dip him, darting in as he rose and thieving the notes from his mouth. “So I haven’t proven myself?”

“Hm, I don’t remember that step.”

“I’m improvising.”

 

 

 

Dawn relented plumes of breath clouding the air as their company packed supplies in the outer courtyard. Near the last of his things crammed into the back of the caravan, Inigo’s nerves stretched thin between heartache and excitement. Yesterday a waking reverie, today bore fulfillment of a promise spanning timelines. He could only give thanks where it was due. Face scrunched against the early morning sun, his mother stood in shadow, half hidden and protected from its’ rays behind saffron armor while she toiled. Even time’s natural course couldn’t separate him from the precious gratitude this journey would bestow.

An opportunity like none other, as Brady might say, who hunched down further in return of Severa’s hug. Splitting from her with a wide grin, he doubled over at something Inigo couldn’t hear, Severa storming in his direction. At her elbow, Noire stuttered her goodbyes, pressing a gleaming crystal into his palm. Touched by the gesture, he warily kept his hands to himself at Severa’s full strength scowl. 

“So,” Inigo offered, hand suspended in midair between them. “I’ll see you—”

Swift as a deathblow, Severa yanked him into a tight hug. “You’re a jackass too.” No doubt a handprint sized bruise marked where she slapped his back. “Don’t expect me to notice when you come back or anything.”

Reeling and hardly able to recover enough to return it, he coughed. “I—I wouldn’t dare.”

“You better not.” Casting her gaze behind him, her eyes sparkled. “What managed to part you from your lifework as a brooding mime?”

“Though, I have had a lot to consider.” Gerome tore his eyes from Inigo, some hidden meaning he couldn’t ken laced between the words. “I would have made a terrible court jester.”

“Gods, would you ever. That’s an understatement,” she scoffed, nose creasing. “Don’t be so modest here.” She sniffed, pursing her lips before taking Noire’s arm. “And we’ll be over there.” Like this, they returned to Brady’s side.

In the midst of a deluge of activity yet comparatively alone, Inigo arranged the crystal into his box of mementos and gestured to Gerome’s bare face. “So this is permanent?”

“I no longer require it.” He still squinted, however. “After this last patrol there are no more battles nor reasons to wear it.”

“Fare thee well to my privileges then.” Climbing in, Inigo shoved his bedroll into the caravan as Gerome stood underfoot. “Careful, now everyone will see how handsome you are. Pray perhaps the mask was part of the allure.” Eyeing the last trunk to his name, he beckoned before Gerome hefted himself after it.

After brief struggle they slotted the case away; knees touching and cramped together, barrels and sundries choking fresh air to stale wood and leather. A stripe of diffused sunlight angled over the detritus speckled floor while Gerome organized weapons haphazardly strewn atop a crate.

“It’s fine, yes?”

“Hardly in this mess. What if— what if these scatter everywhere?”

“I’d not stay in here, that’s what your favorite beasts are for. Also, tents.” Even repulsed that expression gratified him. The fatigued eyes less so.

Last night he crawled out of bed the moment Gerome’s breathing evened. In a cramped blocky hand, he parsed his thoughts to page in dim candlelight as the hour lengthened. Every disturbance set him on edge, fearing Gerome awake. All for naught since he displayed a fine night of true sleeplessness.

“Now Anna can’t price-gouge me.” Inigo foisted the letter upon him, thorn of annoyance prickling as he accepted its arrival in stride.

“Not a _sous_ to our names for our dreams. We may as well give her our wages,” Gerome agreed, honeyed and honest, gaze discerning. “Don’t forget me amongst your many adoring fans.”

“I assure you shall be chief among them.”

“It’ll keep.”

A laugh bubbled from his throat. And that’s enough. Inigo crowded him into a kiss, neither desperate nor needy though the near edge of it tingled like a phantom pressure after they parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After what seemed a thousand writes and rewrites, perfection is the enemy of completion... Anyway, this is the penultimate chapter, I’m glad to share this with you and as always, kudos, feedback, and comments are appreciated!


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